


Rewind

by All_I_need



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dancing Lessons, Fake/Pretend Relationship, John is an oblivious idiot, M/M, Pining, Rewind - Freeform, Sharing a Bed, all the feels, literally everyone sees more than John does, what if
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-05-09 21:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 87,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14723541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/All_I_need/pseuds/All_I_need
Summary: About a month before John's wedding, he and Sherlock embark on one last case together: a murder at a remote hotel in the middle of nowhere. A lot can happen in a week. And a lot doesn't. But what if ...?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here we are again, my dears.  
> I have been working on this one for about 3 years now and I have never been so nervous about posting a new work. If I've done my job right, you will cry. A lot. The basic principle of the story will quickly become apparent, as will the reason for its name. Is there a happy end? I guess you'll have to read and find out.
> 
> Updates every Monday.

*****

_"To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves."_

_\- Federico García Lorca_

*****

 

**> >PLAY<<**

"So the tablecloths will be purple?"

"Lilac. And it's the serviettes. Really, John, do pay attention."

John groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Purple, lilac, what's the difference?"

"On the colour spectrum they-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted him, sighing. "It was a hypothetical question. God, I'm sick of all this."

"Oh." He frowned, feeling his enthusiasm for the wedding preparations evaporate. What point was there to it if John didn't feel enthusiastic himself? "So ... you don't want this, then?"

"Don't want what?"

"The wedding."

"Wha-?" John stared at him in apparent surprise. "Of course I want this wedding, Sherlock! The entire wedding is happening in the first place because I wanted it."

"But you just said..."

"The _wedding_ I want. I simply don't care about the bloody _tablecloths_ one way or the other!" John groaned again and dropped his head onto the table with a dull thud. That couldn't be comfortable. "Please, Sherlock, can we take a break from this? Just once? I'm desperate here."

_'So am I.'_ He didn't say it out loud, of course. He wasn't stupid. "Fine. What do you want to do instead?"

"Don't you have a case going on? Any case at all?" The pleading tone of John's voice was almost disturbing. John didn't like it when people got killed. Perhaps a nice robbery would cheer him up.

Sherlock racked his brain for something. "I ... I could phone Lestrade, ask if he's got something. Or maybe ..." He paused, remembering. "Wait here."

John's reply was muffled by his jumper as he hid his face in the crook of his arm: "Trust me, I'm not going anywhere."

_'You're already halfway gone'_ Sherlock thought, striding down the hall to retrieve his laptop from the bedroom. He shouldn't have left it there. Stupid. He had known John would come over today so they could finally decide on a colour scheme for their ties and hat bands that didn't clash with the other decorations. Mary had cheerfully told them to enjoy themselves and please come to a final decision while she had gone off to meet some of her friends for coffee to gush about her upcoming wedding.

Perhaps, he admitted in the privacy of his own mind, he had left the laptop in his bedroom on purpose after all. It was a perfect excuse to get away for just a couple of seconds, to regroup, to reinforce his defenses. Until John had made him best man and by default included him in all the preparations, Sherlock had never thought that his best friend's wedding would feel like a siege. He certainly hadn't expected that it wouldn't be the bride who was the invading army.

Mary wasn't the issue in all of this and that was precisely the problem. It wasn't _her_ fault.

Dismissing the thought, Sherlock grabbed his laptop and charger and carried them back into the sitting room where John was still slumped across the table, looking for all the world like a man in desperate need of a holiday.

Sherlock opened his e-mails, deleting the usual junk mail and boring requests for him to find missing heirlooms and unfaithful husbands until he finally found the message he had been looking for.

"There is one case I have put off rejecting because it sounded too promising to pass up," he said softly. "The wedding preparations distracted me these past couple of days but I only got the email on Tuesday so my assistance should still be required. It is a bit more than a short break, however."

He turned the laptop around so John could read the e-mail, then tried not to stare at John's lips. He had the most frustrating habit of moving them ever so slightly as he read to himself.

"A murder ... at a remote hotel?"

Sherlock beamed at him. "No way to get there or away on foot unless you are equipped with hiking gear but a shuttle bus comes by once a week, so the killer is most likely still there. Isn't it fantastic?!"

"So ... what you're saying is ... we'd be trying to solve a murder, surrounded by people _who could have done it_?"

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, we can exclude some of them immediately, I'm sure. Shouldn't be much of a challenge. Read on."

He bit his lip and turned away, not wanting to see the obvious changes in John's expression when he found the drawback.

"In ... but Sherlock, that's over _five hundred miles_ away! In the middle of nowhere! We'd be lucky to get phone reception."

"There isn't any," Sherlock informed him. "No Internet access either."

"Sherlock ..."

He sighed. "You wanted a break. This is the only case I've got that sounds even remotely interesting and meets the criteria of giving you the break you want."

"Yes, but Sherlock ... this would be for an entire week!"

"I'm not saying we have to go. Talk to Mary about it if you must. I'm sure she won't object to a little pre-wedding trip with your best mate-" He made a face "- for the sake of solving a murder. And if she does, I can always decline the case."

He turned around to get a good look at John and felt a thrill at how obviously tempted he was by the offer. Taking a deep breath, he played his trump card: "Consider it one last adventure before you settle down."

"There will be other cases, Sherlock," John told him softly. "You do know that, right? Me getting married doesn't change that. I'll still come along on cases."

"Not for an entire week, though," Sherlock reminded him. "I'm sure Mary won't mind you being gone for an afternoon or maybe a day at most, but a week is quite another matter."

John frowned. "It's not like you to be this considerate of others."

_'It's not like you not to be, either'_ Sherlock thought. "People change." He sniffed. "And I'm not going through the hassle of organising your wedding just so you can get divorced in a couple of months once she's fed up with you running off on cases all the time." But oh, how he wished it would happen.

John opened his mouth, blinked in puzzlement, and shut it again. "Fine. I'll talk to her. But you have to promise it won't be dangerous so I can in turn honestly tell _her_ it won't be dangerous."

Sherlock hesitated and did a quick risk calculation. A week in a remote hotel far away from civilisation, living under the same roof as a killer, with no phone reception or internet access and therefore no way of calling in reinforcements should something go wrong.

He smiled and decided to bend the truth just a little. "It will be perfectly safe."

John grinned. "All right then."

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_".erehwyna gniog ton m'I ,em tsurT": mra sih fo koorc eht ni ecaf sih dih eh sa repmuj sih yb delffum saw ylper s'nhoJ_

_".ereh tiaW" .gnirebmemer ,desuap eH "... ebyam rO .gnihtemos tog s'eh fi ksa ,edarsteL enohp dluoc I .. I" .gnihtemos rof niarb sih dekcar kcolrehS_

_.pu mih reehc dluow yrebbor ecin a spahreP .dellik tog elpoep nehw ti ekil t'ndid nhoJ . gnibrutsid tsomla saw eciov s'nhoJ fo enot gnidaelp ehT. "?lla ta esac ynA ?no gniog esac a evah uoy t'noD"_

_"?daetsni od ot tnaw uoy od tahW .eniF" .diputs t'nsaw eH. esruoc fo ,duol tuo ti yas t'ndid eH. 'I ma oS'_

_".ereh etarepsed m'I ?ecno tsuJ ?siht morf kaerb a ekat ew nac ,kcolrehS ,esaelP"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if Sherlock had given himself away? What if John had thought to question him further?_

**> >PLAY<<**

"Please, Sherlock, can we take a break from this? Just once? I'm desperate here."

"So am I." The words slipped out despite his best attempt to bite his tongue. Sherlock winced, hoping against hope that John might not have heard.

"What was that?"

Sherlock closed his eyes to steel himself before shaking his head. "Nothing."

"Desperate how?" John demanded. "Sherlock?"

Dread filled Sherlock's stomach. It was all going to hell now. He'd been on this slippery slope for quite some time, sliding farther and farther down. Apparently, the time to hit rock bottom was now.

"Must we do this?" he asked, trying to buy some more time. Ambiguity was key. Ambiguity meant misunderstanding, meant incomprehension, meant deniability.

But clearly John was not having any of it. Not today, for some reason. It didn't really matter what the reason was because today was not the day Sherlock had wanted to do this.

"Do what?" John demanded. "Plan my wedding? Question your statements? What do you have to be desperate about?"

"The wedding," Sherlock said, hoping John would take it as his picking an answer out of the list John had presented him with rather than an answer to the last option. _Ambiguity, misunderstanding, incomprehension, deniability._ The words had become a mantra in his head.

Perhaps it was something in his tone. Perhaps it was his short answers - too short, clearly a sign of forcing himself not to add details. ( _Only lies have details_.) Perhaps it was a momentary lack of control over his expression. Perhaps something about the set of his mouth or the look in his eyes.

John took a sharp breath, his gaze suddenly too intense for Sherlock to bear. He dropped his own gaze to the floor. At least this way he wouldn't have to watch John leave.

"Sherlock..."

He bit his lip. He had never been able to deny John anything when he used that tone, when his voice was so full of concern and caring and worry for Sherlock, as if nothing else mattered in the whole wide world but his wellbeing. It was a lie, of course it was, because the wedding they were currently planning was the number one piece of evidence in the case of John Watson Loving Someone Else.

He forced himself not to react. Let John draw his own conclusions. Ambiguity. Misunderstanding. Incomprehension. Deniability.

"Sherlock."

He drew his shoulders up, wishing he could fend off the emotional blow heading his way. It hadn't worked so far but perhaps this time...

Clothing rustled as John stood.

Ah. Leaving.

Sherlock braced himself, wondering what was the most likely reaction. Shouting? Stumbling apologies and a hasty retreat? A quiet disappearing act under the guise of needing distance? It didn't even matter - either one would destroy him. He should have know he wouldn't make it very far, should have known he would eventually mess it all up and ruin everything, just as he always did.

John gripped his shoulder and Sherlock almost jumped out of his skin.

"Oh, Sherlock."

He couldn't identify the emotion in John's voice. Sympathy? Pain? Grief? Exasperation?

No anger, though. That was good, wasn't it?

He didn't dare raise his head. Whatever it was, he didn't want to see it mirrored on John's face.

John crouched down in front of him, both his hands now on Sherlock's knees to keep his balance. Sherlock couldn't _not_ look at him and fixed his gaze on the strong fingers gripping his knees.

"You never said," John murmured.

Sherlock blinked rapidly and found himself answering despite himself. "What is there to say? You've made your feelings on the matter quite clear."

His voice cracked on the word "feelings" - pitiful, embarrassing. Stupid, stupid Sherlock.

John made a soft noise in his throat. It sounded a bit pained to Sherlock.

Oh no. Hurting John was not good, he hadn't meant to do that.

"I'm sorry."

In all his life, he had never apologised as much as he had in the few months since his return. When would it be enough? Would he ever be forgiven for his many transgressions? Well, probably not, seeing as John was quite clearly only minutes away from leaving permanently. At least he could stop apologising then.

"You have got nothing to be sorry for," John told him, his voice intense.

Sherlock found himself lifting his head a little and looking John straight in the eye. He looked ... determined and, yes, there it was: anger.

He shrank away from the sight. "I shouldn't have ... I didn't mean to," he stammered, unable to determine even in his own head what precisely he had not meant to do. "I never wanted ..."

"Now I know you're lying," John said and the anger turned into something else, something that might have been wry humour. "It seems to me like you do want, after all."

He couldn't argue with the truth.

"I never meant to. I'm sorry. I keep ruining everything. Just ... forget it."

He'd die if John left. The realisation hit him quite suddenly but the moment he understood it, he knew it had been a long time coming, had probably been true all along. All that made him feel alive would whither and die and leave him an empty shell, an existence rather than a life. He would take John forgetting this entire conversation over having to endure that. Anything, just to keep him from leaving forever.

But John's hands were still on his knees and John was still here and John looked like he might cry. The very thought was terrifying.

"I don't ever want to forget a single thing about you," John said softly. His voice shook. "Quite the contrary. I want to know more and more and more. I want to _have_ more and not let go of it ever again once I've got it."

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't understand. I've already given you everything."

John rose up on his knees, leaning forward, one of his hands rising to touch Sherlock's cheek. "Not quite."

And John kissed him.

He didn't return to Mary that night. He was already home.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_And just like that, all the pain they were headed for could have been avoided. But instead..._

**> >PLAY<<**

"Please, Sherlock, can we take a break from this? Just once? I'm desperate here."

_'So am I.'_ He didn't say it out loud, of course. He wasn't stupid. "Fine. What do you want to do instead?"

"Don't you have a case going on? Any case at all?" The pleading tone of John's voice was almost disturbing. John didn't like it when people got killed. Perhaps a nice robbery would cheer him up.

Sherlock racked his brain for something. "I ... I could phone Lestrade, ask if he's got something. Or maybe ..." He paused, remembering. "Wait here."

John's reply was muffled by his jumper as he hid his face in the crook of his arm: "Trust me, I'm not going anywhere."

*****

"Let me get this right. We're getting married in a month - four weeks - and Sherlock is dragging you off on a case to the middle of nowhere?" Mary sounded absolutely scandalised.

"Er ... yes," John confirmed. "That's about the gist of it, yeah."

"For a random _crime_?"

"Well, it's more an actual murder, but yes."

"Oh, well, if it's an _actual_ murder..." She didn't sound convinced.

"It is," he confirmed. "I can show you the crime scene pictures if you want me to."

"Oh for heaven's sake!"

John sighed. "Listen ... the wedding preparations are almost done, there will still be almost three weeks left for us to go over everything until we're thoroughly sick of it once I'm back. And it's not like I'm going to leave for a case for so long after we're married."

Mary turned away from the sink where she had been angrily scrubbing plates and stared at him. "Oh really?"

"Really," he confirmed.

Drying her hands, she propped them against her hips. "And what does Sherlock think of that?"

"He was the one who pointed it out in the first place," John told her.

Mary sighed. "Fine. Look, I know the two of you are practically attached at the hip and that this isn't the easiest thing for him." For a split second, John thought he saw something like defeat in her eyes, but a moment later she smiled warmly.

"So go and have that last big adventure with him and then come back so we can get married. I'll sort out the flower arrangements in the meantime."

He smiled and pulled her into his arms, kissing her softly. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Her fingers tangled in his jumper. "Have fun."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hotel I'm sending our boys to is named - quite by accident - after a poem. When I came up with the name, I thought it sounded like something I might find a nice quote for. Instead, I found a poem called "The Last Stand" by William Cunningham. You should give it a read, there are a lot of eerie parallels to Sherlock.

"That's it?" John asked. "My god, I didn't expect the middle of nowhere to look quite so ..."

"Desolate?" Sherlock suggested wryly.

John grinned, fully ware of how ridiculous he sounded. "Yeah."

The castle attempting to loom above them was very much on the smallish side, barley more than a wide tower with a cottage glued to its side. The street leading here wasn't paved and barely allowed two cars to pass one another - probably not something that was much of an issue here, admittedly. No matter which direction John turned, all he saw were fields and hills and trees.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket just to confirm what Sherlock had already told him - there was no phone reception or internet access to be found here.

"Come on," Sherlock said, hopping out of the rental jeep and starting to unload their bags. "We've got a few hours of daylight left, might as well make use of them and explore the area."

"Let's get to our rooms first," John reminded him laughingly. "At least long enough to drop our bags and go to the loo, all right?"

Sherlock had stilled, looking ... hesitant? _'Uh-oh.'_

"Sherlock?"

"Uh ... about the rooms..."

"Oh god," John groaned. "Please tell me you remembered to actually make a booking."

"I did," Sherlock said, much to his relief. "But they only had a double room left."

John sighed. "Well, that won't be the first time we end up sharing," he pointed out. "It'll be fine."

He watched as his friend visibly relaxed and wondered just how Sherlock had expected him to react. Surely Sherlock hadn't thought he'd be angry? They had shared a flat for eighteen months, for god's sake! And it really wouldn't be the first time they ended up sharing a room during an out-of-town case. It had never been a problem before and now, a month before his wedding, John saw no reason to freak out about it.

"Come on, let's get inside," he said, grabbing his own bag and marching towards the door. "Can't be worse than that dump in Manchester."

He saw Sherlock grimace as he fell into step next to him, the memory clearly just as revolting as the room had been three years ago. "I think I'd rather sleep under that bridge in Sarajevo again than to spend even a single hour in that place ever again."

John blinked. "Didn't know you've been to Sarajevo." Then: "Wait a minute ... you slept _under a bridge_?!"

"It was while I was ... gone," Sherlock said carefully, clearly reluctant, pausing in front of the door. "I was pretending to be homeless at the time to gather information."

His tone clearly conveyed that this was as much as he was willing to say on the topic.

"All right then. Let's hope this is better than the underside of a bridge, at least."

They pushed open the door and approached the receptionist's desk. "Hello," Sherlock said, taking the lead just as they had agreed upon on the ride here. "I have booked a double room for the week."

"Welcome to _The Last Stand_. Name?" the older man behind the desk asked without bothering to look up from his newspaper.

"Sigerson."

John was glad Sherlock had warned him he was going to give a false name, otherwise he was sure his surprised reaction would have given away the lie.

"Sigerson, Sigerson," the man muttered, flipping through a thick, leather-bound book. "Ah yes, here we are. Room number seven, just go up the stairs here to the second floor, it's the last room on the right."

He handed Sherlock the keys, then caught sight of John. "You two sharing?"

"That's what's usually implied in a double room, yes," Sherlock said coolly. "Problem?"

"Not at all, not at all," the man said, then turned to John. "I suggest you keep a close eye on your boyfriend, lad. Our Harold is a bit of a flirt. Works in the kitchens and dining room, so you won't see much of him outside of mealtimes, but I thought you'd like a little warning."

"Uh..." John said, torn between thanking the man and informing him that actually he was getting married to his very female fiancee in a month.

"Come along, John. Thank you, Mr Hendriksen," Sherlock said, apparently having picked the man's name from the small tag on his waistcoat.

They carried their bags up the massive stone stairs and past naked stone walls to the heavy wooden door bearing the number seven. It looked exactly like John would have imagined a door in a castle to look like.

Sherlock pushed the key into the lock and twisted, shoving the door open with his arm and allowing John to precede him into the room.

"Definitely not a dump," John said, depositing his duffel at the foot of the bed and doing a 360 degree turn to take in what was to be their room for the coming week.

"Definitely not a bridge, either," Sherlock stated, placing his own bag next to John's and also surveying the room.

It was surprisingly spacey, for one thing, with a large four-poster bed that had actual drapes in dark blue, now tied back with elaborate bows. On the opposite side of the room, two huge, comfy-looking leather armchairs stood facing a fireplace with bookshelves on both sides, well-stocked with classics of literature and modern bestsellers alike. Thick rugs covered the hardwood floor to both sides of the bed and in front of the armchairs and an old bureau had been placed beneath the only window just opposite the door. A second door to the right of the bed led towards the bathroom.

"You know ... we have stayed in far worse places." John grinned at him. "And look, there's an entire shelf full of detective stories in case you get bored with the case or solve it before the day is over."

Sherlock blinked at him, surprised. "So you'd actually want to stay here the full week even if I solved the case tonight?"

"Well, of course. The room's booked and paid for, isn't it? Would be a shame to let it go to waste. And truth be told, it's nice to get away from all the wedding craziness for a bit."

He watched Sherlock's shoulders sag in obvious relief. With a sudden start, John realised that Sherlock actually wanted this week of just the two of them very much. God, it must be hard on him, what with John living halfway across the city now and about to get married, unable to accompany him on all his cases. He wondered if Sherlock got lonely at Baker Street without him there. He certainly had.

With that thought in mind, John Watson proceeded to do something unexpected.

*****

Sherlock hadn't known what to expect but it certainly wasn't for John to be so accepting of the fact that he had booked a double room for them. But John wasn't merely accepting - apparently he was so pleased with the room he intended to stay the full week regardless of how quickly Sherlock solved the case. That was ... well, he didn't even know what that was. Not at all bad. Good. Fantastic.

While Sherlock was still busy trying to sort out how to feel about this surprising turn of events, John did something unexpected. He always did that when Sherlock was least prepared for him to. It was the reason he enjoyed John's company so much. Every time Sherlock was sure he knew exactly what John was going to do or say, he would catch him completely by surprise.

This time, John hugged him.

There was no warning, no awkward "May I?" with half-raised arms. John simply took the two steps needed to reach Sherlock and pulled him into a strong hug. It felt as if John was trying to put all of Sherlock's scattered pieces back together just by holding him tight until they got the message and glued themselves back into place.

If John held him long enough, Sherlock suspected it might actually work. He felt overwhelmed. John was too close, too warm, too _everything_. He didn't know what to do, what to focus on. The twenty-four shades of blond and grey in his hair, the 36.5°C of his compact body pressed against Sherlock's entire front, the hot huff of his breath on Sherlock's neck, the scent of washing detergent and hours spent in a car and something that reminded him faintly of the desert and -

"Thank you," John murmured against his shoulder, gave him one last squeeze and stepped back, smiling at him. "For organising all this just because I asked. I couldn't have hoped for a better best man."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, then managed a jerky nod. "Of course, John." He swallowed. "You're welcome."

John smiled again. "I'll just use the bathroom and then we can go exploring if you like."

It was only after he had left the room that Sherlock realised he had been so overwhelmed he had forgotten to hug John back.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_.kcab nhoJ guh ot nettogrof dah eh demlehwrevo os neeb dah eh desilaer kcolrehS taht moor eht tfel dah eh retfa ylno saw tI_

_".ekil uoy fi gnirolpxe og nac ew neht dna moorhtab eht esu tsuj ll'I" .niaga delims nhoJ_

_".emoclew er'uoY" .dewollaws eH ".nhoJ ,esruoc fO" .don ykrej a deganam neht ,feilebsid ni mih ta derats kcolrehS_

_".nam tseb retteb a rof depoh evah t'ndluoc I .deksa I esuaceb tsuj siht lla gnisinagro roF" .mih ta gnilims ,kcab deppets dna ezeeuqs tsal eno mih evag ,redluohs sih tsniaga derumrum nhoJ ",uoy knahT"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if Sherlock had unfrozen in time to hug John back?_

**> >PLAY<<**

"Thank you," John murmured against his shoulder, gave him one last squeeze and started to step back.

Sherlock snapped to attention. Before his brain had time to catch up, his arms had risen and wrapped themselves around John, pulling him closer, drawing him back in.

He didn't care that John had been about to step away. Of course he had been - Sherlock hadn't reacted for too long.

But before that, John had stepped closer. And all of a sudden Sherlock knew that he could not let him go. Not like this. Not without at least trying to make him see, to make him understand.

Understand _what_ exactly, he wasn't quite ready to admit but it had to be expressed somehow.

He crushed John to him, held on for all that he was worth, bent his head and buried his face in the crook of John's shoulder and neck. His fingers clenched in John's jumper.

_How on earth could he possibly let him go?_

"Sherlock?" John sounded tentative and a bit surprised. No anger, though.

Sherlock held on tighter.

"Are... are you all right?"

He couldn't breathe. Any moment now he would have to let John go and he wouldn't get him back like this, ever, and _he couldn't breathe_.

"No."

He hadn't meant to admit that but John had sounded so concerned and he would never get another opportunity after this week and who cared if it went all downhill from here? He was losing John anyway.

John's arms tightened around him again and Sherlock exhaled shakily, ducking his head just a little further, trying to shuffle forward to somehow get their bodies closer together.

"Sherlock, what... what's going on?"

He shook his head but the words poured out anyway. "I can't do it, John."

"Do what?"

He was glad for John's neck muffling his voice, glad to be so close he wouldn't have to see his face. "I can't let go."

There was a pause as that statement sank in.

"Do you mean that in the literal or abstract way?"

"Both." His voice sounded pitifully small but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not with John's arms around him and his breath hot in Sherlock's ear and his pulse just inches from his mouth.

"I don't know how I can let you go. I don't even know how _you_ can let go. I hardly know anything anymore, John. All I know is you're getting married in a month and I can't let go." He gasped for breath in between the rush of words, tried to get enough air in his lungs to continue. "I thought... before I died I thought if I just gave you more time to get used to the idea, you might ... and we could ... but time ran out too soon and there was nothing I could do and I spent two years clinging to that thought, telling myself that if only I made it back home alive ..."

He was babbling now and probably not making any sense but he couldn't stop the words pouring out of his mouth.

"And I came home and all I wanted was to see you and there you were in that restaurant and I saw the ring box on the table and there was Mary and I almost walked away without ever letting you know I was there at all. But I couldn't. I couldn't walk away, John, and time is running out all over again and I still can't do it. I don't know how." He tried to take another breath but it turned into something that was almost a sob. " _I don't know how_ , John."

And he still couldn't move, couldn't lower his arms and step away. He thought he might cease to exist if he did.

So he just stayed where he was, waiting and breathing, while John processed all that.

The silence stretched and became unbearable.

Sherlock took a breath. Time for damage control. "Just ... forget I said anyth-"

"I don't know how, either," John interrupted him. "I don't know how to let you go any more than you do."

"You're getting married," Sherlock reminded him, no longer caring that his voice cracked on the word. "You made your choice months ago, John."

"I didn't even know there _was_ a choice," John said quietly. "But if that's what this is, it's you."

"What?"

John laughed and it sounded a little bit broken. "You died and I ... you have no idea what that did to me. _No idea_ , Sherlock. And you came back and I wasn't brave enough to just go back to the way things were before because what if you left me again? And here you are, telling me you don't know how to do that. It isn't even a choice, really. But I choose you anyway."

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_Just that easily, it could all have been fixed, if only Sherlock had unfrozen a moment sooner. But instead ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

"Thank you," John murmured against his shoulder, gave him one last squeeze and stepped back, smiling at him. "For organising all this just because I asked. I couldn't have hoped for a better best man."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief, then managed a jerky nod. "Of course, John." He swallowed. "You're welcome."

John smiled again. "I'll just use the bathroom and then we can go exploring if you like."

It was only after he had left the room that Sherlock realised he had been so overwhelmed he had forgotten to hug John back.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: there is a reason why I've chosen to rate this fic "E" from the very beginning. And here is why. Now excuse me while I go hide under a rock so you can cry in my inbox.

Their exploration of _The Last Stand_ , as the hotel was called, was cut rather short by the profound lack of anything worth exploring. There were two floors with the eight guest rooms in the tower, the ground floor containing the dining room and a community sitting room that doubled as a bar, and the attached cottage which held the administration offices, reception, the kitchens, a room for drying coats and, below the roof, the rooms of most of the employees.

All around the hotel, there was nothing but grassy hills, trees and, a couple of miles to the east, a small-ish loch.

True to the announcement on their website, there was no phone signal, no television and only one old radio behind the reception desk that was only turned on for the evening and morning news.

Nevertheless, Sherlock insisted on circling the building once in its entirety before climbing up the nearest hill to get a better view of the surrounding area. How precisely this was supposed to help him figure out how Frederik Larsson had been stabbed outside the back door to the kitchen on the previous Monday, John had no idea. He didn't bother asking Sherlock, though, because he knew well enough that he wouldn't have received an answer anyway.

With his long legs and determined stride, Sherlock had already reached the top of the hill and was surveying the surrounding countryside when John came struggling up to the crest and moved to stand next to him. He didn't bother trying to hide that he had become a little winded - there was no point trying to hide anything when in the company of Sherlock Holmes.

However, the detective didn't seem in the mood to comment on the deplorable state of John's fitness. Instead, without so much as turning his head to acknowledge him, Sherlock spoke.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" There was something wistful in his tone that made John snap to attention.

"I guess," he said, regaining his breath and looking around. It was like standing in the middle of an ocean of huge, rolling green waves. A moderate wind blew, bending the long grass and making it ripple, the wavering of the lighter undersides of the stems in comparison to the deeper green of the top only adding to the impression of a green sea. There were no buildings for miles.

"Bit lonely, though."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed. He didn't sound like that was a drawback. "No noise, no influx of information. Peace and quiet."

John blinked, the wistfulness in his friend's voice even more apparent now. "Everything all right?"

"Oh yes," Sherlock said calmly, still staring straight ahead. "I was just thinking ... I might find myself a nice cottage somewhere out here for my retirement."

John choked on his own breath. "Re- _cough_ -retirement?!"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up a tic. "In a couple of decades. I can't run after killers for the rest of my life, can I? Not for lack of trying, certainly, but old age comes to us all. I'd quite like living in the country, somewhere far away from the low IQ of the general populace."

John still had trouble wrapping his mind around the idea of Sherlock retiring. Of Sherlock not doing what he was doing anymore. Somehow, it had never occurred to him before that all this would one day have to end. "What would you do all day? You'd go bonkers within a week. Less than a day if there's no phone reception or Internet."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd keep bees, of course."

He said it as if beekeeping were a topic they frequently talked about when, in fact, he had never so much as mentioned it before.

"Of course," John said dryly. "Bees. Why didn't I think of that immediately?"

The smile playing around Sherlock's lips grew more profound. "Indeed, why not, John?"

He turned and started descending the hill, back towards the hotel.

Still reeling from the conversation - weird, but by far not the weirdest he and Sherlock had ever had - John had no choice but to follow him.

*****

_ **Interlude:** _

_Things Sherlock didn't say but wanted to:_

_"I used to want a remote cottage to be rid of people in general, but then one day you got angry about the entails in the bath tub and you started on a lengthy tirade about basic hygiene - and suddenly you stopped and started laughing and you laughed and laughed and then you never complained again. And you never told me what had been so funny. Perhaps you finally realised how ridiculous your life had become. It doesn't matter, really. But in that moment I realised I couldn't imagine not living with you, not having you pestering me about eating and body parts in the fridge every day. So I started imagining you in that cottage with me and it was perfect. I thought there was a chance for that. Just the two of us and the rest of the world can rot. I still want that cottage, even though now I know you won't be living there with me. I want it even more now, I think, a place you've never set foot in. And that will only make it so much worse, walking through an empty cottage that should have you in it but doesn't. I shall be haunting those rooms, a ghost even before I'm dead, searching for that which I cannot find."_

_*****_

There was still an hour left before dinner, so they spent their time unpacking their bags and taking turns in the bathroom for a quick shower and to finally change out of their travel clothes. Sherlock let John have the bath first, knowing he himself would need more time than the doctor if he wanted to get his curls under at least a semblance of control. Merely towel-drying them unfortunately turned them into a puff of fluff on his head that Sherlock considered unfit to be seen in public.

John came back out after precisely twelve minutes and twenty seven seconds, his hair sticking up in all directions from the very same treatment Sherlock couldn't subject his own to. The sight made his fingers itch to reach out and comb through the short strands, so he grabbed his change of clothes and one of the towels provided by the hotel and fled into the bathroom before he could embarrass himself.

It was a familiar routine, one he had brought to perfection while living with John before his fake suicide - to beat a dignified retreat before he could reach out and do something stupid. Nowadays, there was little need for it, what with John no longer living in 221b Baker Street and Mary a permanent fixture in their lives. The visual confirmation that John still looked the way Sherlock remembered coming out of the shower was a painful sting in his abdomen, one he tried his best to ignore. There was no point reminiscing and yearning for times long past.

When they were both showered and fully dressed, there was still a quarter of an hour left before they had to head downstairs for dinner.

"So," John began conversationally, "are you going to give me any further details on the case or do you want me to risk whatever plan you have at dinner?"

Sherlock weighed his options, not that he had many, and decided to fill John in on the facts. They could not rely on outside assistance for this and there really was no point in a strict need-to-know basis.

"Frederik Larsson, has been working here for three years as a concierge. He was found stabbed to death by the kitchen entrance. There have been some food thefts in the kitchens for a while, so the police assume he happened upon the thief and was silenced in a rather final way."

He watched as John's lips twitched. "You don't think that's what happened, of course."

"Of course not," he snorted. "No one who steals a loaf of bread or a piece of meat every now and then would stab a person upon being discovered. Too much of a mess for too little gain, not to mention that a petty thief is unlikely to escalate to this level of violence."

"So you think it was a member of staff, then?"

"Or perhaps one of the guests," Sherlock confirmed, nodding. "Everyone is of course aware of the tragedy but so far they have accepted the explanation offered by the police as well as the hotel owner's rather ingenious damage control of offering everyone a free week's stay at the hotel. Since no one wants to look a gift horse in the mouth and our murderer appears to be feeling very secure, everyone who was here at the time of the murder is still present, so we will not have to worry about having to hunt anyone down."

"Someone might want to hunt _us_ down," John pointed out.

Sherlock nodded. "That's why I insisted on false names. John is generic enough, but if Sherlock Holmes were to walk into this hotel, our killer would certainly realise I don't buy the police' explanation and am here to investigate. If he or she has any brains at all, they would make a run for it. Similarly, that they have not yet done so proves they are reasonably intelligent. Everyone accepted the hotel owner's generous offer, so if only one person were to leave, suspicion would immediately fall on them. Lying low is a far better option."

"So long as there is no consulting detective around," John finished his thought for him, nodding in understanding.

Sherlock beamed at him, happy to know that John, as usually, knew what he was getting at. "Precisely!"

"Okay, let me get this straight. The killer is still here. We are here incognito, so I will actually have to call you by your false name the entire time, yes?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied.

"Why Sigerson?"

He shifted, fiddling with his cuff. "It was my primary alias while I was undercover," he admitted. "While I was gone my full name was Lars Sigerson but I dislike the thought of keeping it, so I changed the first name to William."

John snorted. "William, of all names. How on earth did you come up with that one? Was it one of the ten most common names in England?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"Sherlock?" Now John definitely sounded intrigued.

He sighed. Damn it. Should have known this would happen eventually. Oh well, time to confess. He took a deep breath, drew back his shoulders and said: "William Sherlock Scott Holmes. It's my name."

There was silence. And then more silence.

Sherlock dared to glance up and found John staring at him with a look of absolute bafflement on his face.

And then a slow, satisfied grin spread on John's face.

"I KNEW IT!" He actually punched the air with his fist.

Sherlock frowned, now puzzled himself. "Excuse me?"

John beamed. "I _knew_ your parents couldn't have been mad enough to actually call you 'Sherlock'."

"They did, though."

"Yes, but not as your first name."

John was still grinning, as if this was the best news he had ever heard. Sherlock found it was slightly aggravating. He huffed. "Well, I'm glad I could amuse you."

He didn't know whether to be annoyed or appeased when John patted his shoulder.

"Well," John said. "I can see why you went with 'Sherlock'."

Perhaps he was a bit intrigued. "You can?"

John shrugged. "Of course. It's unique. Fits you perfectly."

Sherlock decided he was most definitely appeased.

"Okay, so ... dinner," John said, bringing them back to the original topic. "Do we have a story about who we are and what we are doing here?"

"You are a budding mystery writer suffering from writer's block and were desperate to get out of the city for a while and I tagged along because you didn't want to go alone and I couldn't refuse you when you asked," Sherlock informed him, talking a bit too fast in his hope that John wouldn't question this any further.

"Mystery writer, eh?" John said, smiling. Then he frowned. "And what are we? Friends? In a relationship?"

Sherlock suddenly found it quite impossible to continue looking at John, so he went back to fiddling with his cuff. "I was thinking we'll just be ourselves and let people think what they want."

John sighed. "That's what I thought you might say. People always assume we're a couple."

 _'Maybe that's because they see the way I look at you'_ Sherlock thought, biting his lip to stop himself from speaking out loud.

"It will work in our favour here," he said instead. "So maybe tone down on your mentions of Mary while we're here, all right? You heard the receptionist, we already know there is one gay man in this hotel who loves to flirt, so we may have to expand our cover story just to keep him from getting in our way."

To his relief, John sighed again but nodded in resigned acceptance. "Fine. But if word of this gets back to my fiancee, you are the one to explain it to her and tell her all about how it was your idea."

Sherlock nodded. "It won't but if it does, it's a deal."

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_".laed a s'ti ,seod ti fi tub t'now tI" .deddon kcolrehS_

_".aedi ruoy saw ti woh tuoba lla reh llet dna reh ot ti nialpxe ot eno eht era uoy ,eecnaif ym ot kcab steg siht fo drow fi tuB .eniF" .ecnatpecca dengiser ni deddon tub niaga dehgis nhoJ ,feiler sih oT_

_".yaw ruo ni gnitteg morf mih peek ot tsuj yrots revoc ruo dnapxe ot evah yam ew os ,trilf ot sevol ohw letoh siht ni nam yag eno si ereht wonk ydaerla ew ,tsinoitpecer eht draeh uoY ?thgir lla ,ereh er'ew elihw yraM fo snoitnem ruoy no nwod enot ebyam oS" .daetsni dias eh ",ereh ruovaf ruo ni krow lliw tI"_

_.duol tuo gnikaeps morf flesmih pots ot pil sih gnitib ,thguoht kcolrehS 'uoy ta kool I yaw eht ees yeht esuaceb s'taht ebyaM'_

_".elpuoc a er'ew emussa syawla elpoeP .yas thgim uoy thguoht I tahw s'tahT" .dehgis nhoJ_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if Sherlock had accidentally spoken his thought out loud?_

**> >PLAY<<**

John sighed. "That's what I thought you might say. People always assume we're a couple."

"Maybe that's because they see the way I look at you," Sherlock said.

A deafening silence followed that statement and it took Sherlock several seconds to realise he had spoken out loud. It was the look on John's face that did it - the sudden shift from wry amusement about their situation and people's assumptions to sudden, _I-must-have-misheard-that_ shock.

Sherlock closed his eyes for too long for it to pass for a blink.

"Come again?" John asked. Sherlock wondered who he was trying to fool - they both knew John had heard him quite correctly.

He decided not to play this game. Not this time.

So, instead of saying something, anything, else that sounded vaguely similar so they could both pretend John had misheard, Sherlock took a deep breath and repeated himself, enunciating every word as clearly as possible.

"I _said_ maybe that's because they see the way I look at you."

The words dropped from his mouth like tiny bombs to explode in the space between them.

John stared at him. "You ... actually meant that."

Sherlock blinked at him, confused. "John, my brother, my housekeeper, Lestrade and half of Scotland Yard, a restaurant owner, a bunch of strangers and various criminals have all taken one look at the two of us and assumed you were either my partner or likely to become so very rapidly. I assure you, it is not because they just happened to be extremely good at randomly guessing at what would annoy you most."

"No ... no, probably not," John said, apparently determined to go about this the circular way. "But you've never ... I never noticed..."

"Me looking at you like this?" Sherlock allowed some of it to show on his face, let it bleed into his gaze as he stared at John. It was quite difficult to overcome years of instinct telling him not to let John see.

The effect seemed to be sufficient, though, because John said, very softly: "Oh." He cleared his throat. "Yeah. That."

Sherlock smiled sadly. "You not noticing was rather the point."

"Sherlock..."

"It doesn't matter, John. You and I both know how this conversation is going to go. Believe me when I say I have gone over it in my head quite often enough, I really don't need a live reenactment as confirmation."

"But..."

"Please," Sherlock interrupted him. "You're getting married in less than a month, John. I've spent the past two months organising most of it. I know very well what is and is not realistic for me to expect here."

He watched his words hit John and wondered if they felt like physical blows to him, too, or - failing that - if he could at least understand that to Sherlock it felt like stabbing himself repeatedly with a rusty corkscrew.

Deciding he didn't want to see the moment John understood just how much this was destroying him, Sherlock abruptly turned away from him.

"It's almost time for dinner," he said briskly. "Let's go down and meet the other guests. I want to get a good long look at them all."

He almost made it all the way to the door. Almost - and then he was reaching for the handle and suddenly John's hand clamped around his arm and Sherlock hung his head. Clearly this conversation wasn't over yet.

"Really, John, it will be fine. We'll go down there, you'll be your usual oblivious self and I'll have no trouble at all looking just as in love with you as ever."

When John did not loosen his grip, Sherlock turned slowly, suddenly unsure. Was John all right? Did he need anything?

A moment later, he found himself pushed against the door. It was only half a step behind him but he hadn't been prepared for John to push him and instead of taking that necessary half-step backwards, his feet remained rooted to the floor and he fell back against the hard wood, a little slumped now.

It brought his head to precisely the right height for John not to have to stretch in order to kiss him.

The first brush of John's mouth against his made him freeze, the second made him gasp. By the third, he had managed to get a hold of John, both his hands bunched in the soft wool of his jumper, and was kissing him back rather desperately.

It felt like having an out-of-body experience. Logically, he knew it couldn't be happening, but a part of him remained insistent, observing the spectacle the two of them must make, propped against the door, hands clenched in each other's clothes as they kissed as if they had just invented it, all tongues and teeth and lips and a slightly mad struggle to fit them together in the best possible way.

Sherlock moaned because he couldn't not react to this and John's left hand found its way to the back of his head and clenched in his curls and Sherlock's brain went offline.

He wasn't aware of quite how it happened, but a moment or perhaps several minutes later he had surged forward and turned them so John was the one pressed against the door - terribly cliché, Sherlock thought, not caring at all - and Sherlock had managed to undo John's trousers and to shove one greedy hand inside, desperate to touch, to map and trace with his fingers.

It elicited a groan from John and a harsh curse that got quite a bit more creative when Sherlock unceremoniously pushed down his pants, dropped to his knees and swallowed him down, all within about five seconds.

Thinking was not happening right now and neither was doubting.

Here was something Sherlock wanted, rather desperately, and not only had John initiated all of this by kissing him instead of letting him go like a sensible person, he was also not raising any objections to any of this. The only thing raised, as far as Sherlock could tell, was John's interest. The evidence was rather compelling.

He moaned around the thick hot length in his mouth and felt John shiver in response. Both of John's hands had found their way into his curls by now and he gave a slight tug, causing Sherlock to moan again at the static that prickled down his spine.

"Sorry," John gasped and loosened his grip.

Shaking his head as much as he could right now - not very well - Sherlock reached out with one hand, fumbled for John's hands and pressed them back onto his head firmly, making his fingers curl into his hair and tugging demonstratively.

That earned him another curse and John gave a sharp tug that felt about four times better than it had any right to.

He pulled back for a moment to draw a ragged breath into his lungs.

"Please." It was a gasp. He didn't care. "Please, John."

"God, anything," John groaned and then almost sobbed as Sherlock bobbed his head again, letting his tongue swirl around the head of John's cock.

"What are you doing to me?" John asked. "What- what are you doing?"

"Anything you want," Sherlock murmured against his skin. "Everything I want."

He didn't know if that made sense - he was barely able to string words together at all now and the hand not clinging to John's hip like a lifeline was shoved down his own trousers and pants in a desperate bid for some relief.

"You are killing me," John groaned. "Oh, Sherlock!"

 _'I'm killing us both,'_ Sherlock thought in a sudden bout of clarity in all the madness. _'We're never going to come back from this.'_

But right then, he couldn't even be sorry and so he wasn't, knowing the regret and the anguish would come later, once the pleasure had seeped through and from their systems and the reality of what they had done finally sunk in. But not yet. Not yet.

He redoubled his efforts, almost sobbing with the desperate need for release, for John, for all the things he had denied himself for so long and would never have, regardless of what was happening right at this moment.

"Oh, god, yes," John moaned. "Sherl-"

He didn't need to hear the warning in his voice - even now there was still enough awareness in his brain to let him know that he had about ten seconds to pull off if he wanted to.

Sherlock didn't.

Instead, with a groan, he dived back in, breathing in deeply while he still could and taking in as much of John as possible before swallowing around him.

John came with a shout, his hands clenching in Sherlock's hair and the twin input was more than enough to send him over the edge as well, bringing tears to his eyes from the sheer intensity of it.

Finally, when breathing became an absolute necessity, he pulled away and slumped forward, pressing his head to John's trembling thigh and taking deep, heaving breaths.

John was gasping and panting, leaning against the door as if it and Sherlock's weight against his leg were the only things holding him upright.

"God, that was ..." He broke off, either unwilling or unable to finish the thought.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. Whatever it was John had meant to add - fantastic, glorious, a bloody stupid idea - he could only agree.

It took him almost two minutes to realise that John's hands were still stroking through his hair, gently smoothing the curls now instead of pulling at them. The gesture was so soft, felt so caring, that Sherlock wanted to cry.

Instead, he pulled away and staggered to his feet, wiping his hand on his trousers.

John stared at him blearily, his eyes still a little dazed even as his breathing returned to something resembling a normal pattern.

"You've done that before," he finally said.

"Not to you," Sherlock managed, wondering when his mouth would stop running away from him.

John chuckled. "Hm, no. I think I would have noticed that. Good lord, your mouth..." He swallowed and Sherlock felt a prickle of satisfaction as John's cock gave a half-hearted twitch in a valiant effort to harden again.

"I told you not to believe everything my brother says," he said, forcing a half-smile on his face as he waited for the inevitable.

Any moment now John would realise what had just happened and then it would all be over.

John laughed, dragged his pants and trousers back up and pulled Sherlock in for a slightly clumsy kiss. It felt as if he were conducting a strip-search of Sherlock's mouth, moaning at the combined taste of them on Sherlock's tongue, and when he finally pulled back, there was a low heat in his eyes. "Let's get you cleaned up and then we can just ... forget about dinner and stay in bed all night."

Sherlock stared at him. "John ... You're getting married next month."

John shook his head. "No. No, I'm not."

He must have misheard.

He _must_ have misheard. Or perhaps he had hit his head and was dreaming because this could not possibly be what John had just said.

"John..."

But John was still shaking his head and reached out to cup Sherlock's face in both hands, making him meet his gaze. "No. Because I might not have said so and lord knows I've tried to pretend I didn't, but I've looked at you that way, too. I lost you once and it nearly killed me. I won't lose you again. And I absolutely refuse to lose you when neither one of us wants me to get married to a woman I met only a year ago."

He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. "I'll have to talk to her, of course, explain somehow ... but I don't think she'll be too surprised. She's been making comments, too." He laughed bitterly. "God, even my own fiancée saw the way you looked at me."

Sherlock searched his gaze for any hint of a lie but couldn't find any. John had always been honest about everything except the lies he told himself.

"You're serious," Sherlock concluded, amazed. "You're actually serious."

"Yes. Yes I am," John confirmed and nodded as if to emphasise his point. "I love you."

Sherlock very nearly fell to his knees again.

They missed dinner.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_It could have ended right there. This was where they could have had their happy ending. But instead ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

John sighed. "That's what I thought you might say. People always assume we're a couple."

 _'Maybe that's because they see the way I look at you'_ Sherlock thought, biting his lip to stop himself from speaking out loud.

"It will work in our favour here," he said instead. "So maybe tone down on your mentions of Mary while we're here, all right? You heard the receptionist, we already know there is one gay man in this hotel who loves to flirt, so we may have to expand our cover story just to keep him from getting in our way."

To his relief, John sighed again but nodded in resigned acceptance. "Fine. But if word of this gets back to my fiancée, you are the one to explain it to her and tell her all about how it was your idea."

Sherlock nodded. "It won't but if it does, it's a deal."

 


	4. Chapter 4

Dinner was served in the great hall on the ground floor of the tower and allowed them their first opportunity to look at the other guests. To this purpose, Sherlock selected a table at the wall and sat with his back to said wall. John, unwilling to have his back to a room full of strangers, chose the chair diagonally across his friend. It meant their knees frequently brushed together as they sat, but personal space had always been a foreign term to Sherlock so John didn't think he would mind. If anything, he was probably pleased by the fact that the casual contact added to their cover story.

A couple of other people were already present and John nudged Sherlock's knee to subtly get his attention. "Anyone suspicious yet?"

Sherlock smiled and responded, keeping his voice low. "Sometimes I fear you overestimate my ability to suss out a murderer, John."

He snorted softly. "So you're saying you haven't deduced anything yet?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "So far we have that lady over there, treating herself to a bit of peace and quiet away from her overbearing family; this wealthy investment banker over there; the two sisters who each plan to seduce the banker and ... a waiter who appears to be camper than a row of tents, as the saying goes."

John chuckled, letting his gaze roam the people in question. The woman Sherlock had deduced as escaping her family was ignoring everyone else and focusing entirely on her plate. John noticed she was wearing a ring with a tiny rubber duck on it and found himself smiling - here was someone who didn't take herself too seriously. He rather suspected they might have interesting conversations if they ever managed to socialise with the other guests.

The man Sherlock had identified as an investment banker (and John didn't bother asking how he knew, probably from the way his shoelaces were tied) appeared to be in his mid-thirties and not at all above subtly flashing his wealth for everyone to see, judging by the brand new Rolex gleaming on his wrist and the diamond cuff links. If he was aware of the blond twin sisters throwing not-so-subtle glances in his direction every couple of seconds, he didn't show it.

As for the waiter ...

"Hell-oooo, what have we got here?" the young man asked, having just reached their table and staring at Sherlock with the rapt amazement people usually reserved for the detective before he opened his mouth and ruined the effect his looks had on them. "New faces! Would you like anything to drink?"

The way he said it made it obvious that 'anything' really meant _anything_ while the drinks were entirely optional.

"Just water for me, please," Sherlock said, clearly determined to stay sober and clear-headed.

"I'll have a pint," John said after clearing his throat to draw the waiter's attention. Blue eyes swept up and down his body in an appraising gaze before the waiter nodded once and returned his attention back to Sherlock. "One pint and a water coming right up. Do you have any preferences ... for your water?"

"Still water would be splendid," Sherlock said, pretending not to have seen the man's wink. He squinted at the name tag pinned to his shirt. "Harold. And I do believe that lady over there would also like another drink."

Thus reminded of his duties, the waiter departed, hips swaying slightly more than necessary as he stole a glance back at Sherlock.

"Well done," John said, amused. "Less than two minutes and already you've got yourself an admirer."

Sherlock looked pained. "I'm glad this amuses you, John. Personally, I found his conduct highly unprofessional. I'm surprised none of the guests have complained yet. He dismissed your presence with barely any acknowledgment of your order."

"Yeah, but that's what usually happens," John reminded him, thinking back to some of their previous cases. "I bet he will find a way to sneak you his number before the day is out. Anyway, he strikes me as the kind of person who knows a lot of things about what's going on."

A small smile formed on Sherlock's lips. "Indeed. Waiters are ideally positioned to gather all sorts of information while doing their jobs. No one pays them any more attention than strictly necessary. It's how I managed to sneak up on you at the Landmark so easily."

John snorted. "I thought you were dead, Sherlock. Excuse me for not expecting you to show up in a fancy restaurant with a drawn-on mustache and a terrible French accent."

"It wasn't terrible," Sherlock defended himself, as usually managing to pick the least important part of the argument and respond to that. "I am fluent in French, if you must know."

"Yes but do the French share your opinion on the subject?" John retorted, grinning broadly at Sherlock's huff of indignation.

Before his friend could reply, Harold returned with their drinks, setting them on the table on small white napkins and leaving wordlessly but not without winking at Sherlock.

"What was that?" John asked, noting the amused curl of Sherlock's mouth.

Wordlessly, Sherlock raised his glass and held up the napkin with his other hand. Scrawled along the edge was a series of numbers and the words _"Call me anytime"._

John laughed. "See? I told you so."

*****

Blue eyes sparkling with amusement, thin lips parted around a quiet laugh. Sherlock tried not to stare, filing the visual and audial memory away in the section of his mind palace reserved exclusively for John Watson.

Those moments were going to be a rarity from now on, he knew. Regardless of his personal preferences, he would no longer be able to spend as much time with John, have his attention focused on him like this, be the cause of his delighted amusement. He worked twice as hard to cause as many of those moments as he could in the limited time he had left, wanting to store as many memories as possible for the bleak and empty John-less times ahead.

The waiter had faded from his attention as quickly as a passing fly, little more than a blip on the radar before all his focus was returned to where it belonged - firmly on John.

"So," John was saying, still smiling, "are you going to call him?"

Sherlock blinked. "Excuse me?"

"The waiter," John prompted. "Are you going to take him up on his offer?"

For a moment, he didn't know whether to laugh or be sick. He settled on mildly irritated. "Apart from the obvious fact that there is no phone reception - why would I want to do that?" All those years and still John's thought process remained a mystery to him most of the time.

John shrugged. "Dunno. I figured you might do with some human contact every now and then."

"Human contact?" Sherlock echoed, now earnestly puzzled.

"You know," John wagged his eyebrows, "get a leg over, let off some steam ..."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "With _him_? Really, John, what do you think of me?"

It was an insult no matter how he looked at it - to his own judgment and to John himself, because why on earth would he be interested in anyone when John was _right there_? It was moments like this where he wished he could open his mouth and simply say what was on his mind. Perhaps if he had done so months - no, _years_ \- ago, this entire situation could have been avoided. Or perhaps he would have lost John.

Not acceptable.

Unaware of Sherlock's thought process, John shrugged. "I'm not blind, you know?"

For a moment, blind panic flooded him. Had John figured it out? Did John know? He had been so careful, where had he slipped up? As his mind searched frantically for an answer to these questions, he schooled his features into a mask of polite interest. "Oh?"

"Come on," John said, spreading his hands in a _'What can you do?'_ gesture. "You can't tell me you've never thought about it."

Sherlock was not one to pray, but this time he mentally did. "Thought about _what_ , John?"

If he sounded a bit more annoyed and impatient than he should, he really didn't care.

"Having sex with a man," John said, as if that was the most obvious thing on earth.

Sherlock frowned (mostly to hide his relief) and tilted his head. "You really believe what Mycroft said, don't you? I must say I'm disappointed. I thought I taught you not to take anything he says for granted. Even Mycroft doesn't know everything, regardless of his own beliefs on the subject."

He waited just long enough for John to start muddling through that statement before adding: "And for the record: I've done far more than merely _think_ about it."

John choked on his own spit and started coughing, his face turning beet red - whether from the choking or the subject matter was difficult to tell. Sherlock leaned back in his chair, satisfied and uneasy in equal measure. He hadn't actually meant to ever let John in on that little secret. Then again, if anyone would understand that Sherlock was more human than he let on, it would be John Watson.

Granted, he wouldn't claim to have all that much experience in that area and what he had dated from his university days and was therefore a little rusty. The cocaine and the cases had soon driven everything else from his mind and he had found that the effort required to 'get a leg over', as John had phrased it, was not worth the outcome of an hour or so of pleasure, never mind the resulting mess. He had considered that door in his mind palace firmly closed until John Watson had walked into his life and by now it seemed far too late to do anything about it. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

He firmly shut the door on that train of thought once more, adding several bolts for extra security.

"You ...?" John gasped, recovering from his coughing fit. "When?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I did a lot of experiments on human nature at University. It hardly seemed logical to ignore the prime motive for half of people's actions. Then I discovered cocaine and lost interest."

"Lost interest," John echoed, clearly having more difficulty accepting this concept than the fact that Sherlock had not only admitted to having been sexually active once upon a time but also implied that such activities had involved men.

"How can you lose interest in sex?"

"It wasn't important enough in comparison to everything else," Sherlock explained patiently. "I gained some experience, then turned my attention to other fields of study."

Catching sight of more people entering the room, he held up a hand to stop John's inevitable response. "The entire conversation is beside the point, anyway. I have no interest whatsoever in the waiter-"

"Harold," John muttered.

"-and I need to turn my attention back to the case at hand, if you don't mind," he finished, ignoring John.

His friend sighed and fell silent, allowing Sherlock to do as he had said and focus on the newcomers.

They were an elderly couple, clearly retired and rather well-off. No, they had been, he deduced, eyes flicking to the woman's jewelry. A bad investment, perhaps? They certainly had less money now than they used to but were still trying to give the impression of being far from broke. He judged them both to be in their mid-to-late sixties and of Eastern European origin, perhaps Poland or Bulgaria. They were also, he noted, very much in love.

A strong, happy marriage that had withstood many years and the loss of a considerable fortune and a close relative, perhaps a child. Yet the husband looked at his wife with undisguised affection and she didn't pay attention to the rich and reasonably attractive investment banker two tables over.

Sherlock felt a tug of longing in his chest and quickly clamped it down. This was not something he would ever be privy to. There was no use in wishing for impossibilities.

He turned his attention to the other people in the room. An aspiring crime writer, probably hoping to overcome his writing block in a place that offered little entertainment except writing. Interesting, considering the cover story he had cooked up for John. Best to keep that under wraps for now. Of course, there was always a chance that he was the one who had killed the concierge in a violent attempt at research and believability, but the possibility seemed too far-fetched to take into further consideration right now.

The woman sitting alone at her table might be a better lead, provided she had somehow decided to stop being a lesbian for long enough to start a sordid affair with a concierge at a remote hotel. He considered the likelihood of himself making a similar choice concerning a woman and decided there was a better chance of Mycroft marrying his umbrella.

Then there were the twin sisters, locked in their own version of a sibling rivalry centred around the good-looking investment banker. Judging by their appearances and his obvious awareness of the situation (he was avoiding looking in their direction far too studiously for it to be a coincidence) this had been going on for a while. It seemed unlikely that the victim might in some way have gotten sucked into the triangle.

No, Sherlock decided. A handful of minutes in a room full of strangers was not sufficient to suss out the murderer. Not after everyone had had a chance to change their clothes and shower several times, effectively ruining any evidence that might have placed them at the crime scene. A crime scene Sherlock was increasingly eager to see. Unfortunately, that would have to wait until later tonight, after everyone had gone to sleep.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

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_".ti tuoba thguoht reven ev'uoy em llet t'nac uoY" .erutseg '?od uoy nac tahW' a ni sdnah sih gnidaerps ,dias nhoJ ",no emoC"_

_"?hO" .tseretni etilop fo ksam a otni serutaef sih deloohcs eh ,snoitseuq eseht ot rewsna na rof yllacitnarf dehcraes dnim sih sA ?pu deppils eh dah erehw ,luferac os neeb dah eH ?wonk nhoJ diD ?tuo ti derugif nhoJ daH .mih dedoolf cinap dnilb ,tnemom a roF_

_"?wonk uoy ,dnilb ton m'I" .deggurhs nhoJ ,ssecorp thguoht s'kcolrehS fo erawanU_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if Sherlock had given himself away in his panic?_

**> >PLAY<<**

Unaware of Sherlock's thought process, John shrugged. "I'm not blind, you know?"

For a moment, blind panic flooded him. Had John figured it out? Did John know? He had been so careful, where had he slipped up? As his mind searched frantically for an answer to these questions, he schooled his features into a mask of polite interest. "Oh?"

"Come on," John said, spreading his hands in a _'What can you do?'_ gesture. "You can't tell me you've never thought about it."

There it was then. And John didn't sound as if he was angry. Or ... disgusted. He sounded almost as if he might have been thinking about it, too.

Time to confess then. A hotel dining room wouldn't have been his first choice, but you had to work with what you got.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "I think about it all the time, John. But since you've already made it clear it won't ever happen, I can do nothing but accept your choice and support you in it."

John choked on his water and spent a minute or two violently coughing. Several heads turned towards them before the other guests decided he wasn't going to die right at this moment and turned back to their own food.

"What?"

"I think about it all the time, John," Sherlock repeated. Now that the words were out there, it was ridiculously easy to say them again. He rather thought he could just talk and talk and talk and never shut up and still find new things to say on the matter.

But ... the wedding. He felt his momentary joy at the freedom to speak up fade away.

The corners of his mouth twisted downward. "And I know you don't feel that way. That can't be helped, I suppose."

"Sherlock," John said and there was an odd note to his voice.

"Don't worry," Sherlock continued, on a roll now. "I'll still make sure you have the best wedding anyone has ever seen."

John stared at him. He looked rather stunned for someone who had started this conversation.

"Right." He said and put his fork down. "You know, I was just asking if you'd ever thought of being with a man in general but it seems you're way ahead of me."

Sherlock blinked. John hadn't meant ...? But his words... they had been so specific. John couldn't possibly still walk around this world thinking Sherlock wasn't as gay as the day was long, could he? How did people who were that oblivious even survive in this world? And, more importantly, how on earth was he going to convince John that he had misunderstood/that he must have been drugged and was hallucinating/that Sherlock had been joking?

Of course, this misunderstanding explained John's lack of anger or disgust. Just plain and simple curiosity. And that meant he hadn't meant to express an interest, because _he was not interested, get this through your thick skull, Sherlock_ , and now he knew. He hadn't been supposed to know if there wasn't the slightest chance...

Sherlock had no idea what his expression showed at the moment but the emotions on John's face turned from shock and confusion to something softer and then something harsher that Sherlock couldn't identify. It didn't seem to be anger, though.

"Right," John said again. He took a sip of his water, this time without choking on it, and stood. "Come on."

Sherlock blinked at him.

"Come with me," John said and waved his hand towards the door. "You look like you need to be somewhere that isn't full of people."

Sherlock supposed that was correct. He stood, abandoning the rest of his dinner. He wasn't all that hungry, anyway.

John led him out of the room, through the hall and right out the front door. It was quiet out there and surprisingly warm. The sun had barely begun to set this far up north.

Sherlock leaned against the building wall and tried to take deep breaths. His hands were shaking.

He had never meant for it to happen like this.

It took a minute or two before he realised John was standing in front of him, watching him carefully.

"Are... are you all right?"

Sherlock bit out a harsh laugh. "No." He swallowed. "Don't distress yourself. I haven't been all right in over two years. Perhaps I never will be."

John looked... sad? Angry? Hurt? Pained?

"Sherlock..."

"I think I'd rather be alone right now," Sherlock found himself saying. "Just ... leave me be for a while."

He hung his head, unable to look at John any longer. All of a sudden, he needed distance and quiet and a chance to rebuild all the carefully structured walls he had so carelessly allowed to fall at dinner.

What on earth had he been thinking? Taking John here, to this place, with some half-hatched plan of maybe perhaps hinting that he had hoped they could ... what? Forget about Mary and live happily ever after? He should have known that wasn't what life had in store for him. People like him didn't get happy endings. They didn't even get a happy middle. Even in the movies, all people like him ever did was die in gruesome ways. Perhaps that should have told him something.

The despair he had been holding back for months was washing over him, drowning him, and perhaps he deserved that. What was the point in fighting when there was nothing to be gained in the end?

And then John said: "I thought about it, too."

The entire world seemed to jerk to a sudden stop.

"I still do," John said. "I know I shouldn't but I can't help myself. I can't not wonder."

Sherlock gaped at him. He opened and closed his mouth, tried out various possible replies, and finally settled on: "John ... I'm talking about a relationship. You and me, together, always. Preferably naked."

That seemed to cover it. He had to make sure John understood.

John smiled. "Yes," he said. "That. I want that."

"You're engaged. You're getting married in less than a month."

"I know," John said. "But the great thing about the future is that you can change it whenever you like. And if someone gives you the choice between what you _think_ you _should_ want and what you _actually_ want, well ... you don't mess about."

"I don't understand," Sherlock said because he didn't. It sounded like he was what John actually wanted, which was impossible because no one in their right mind wanted him, certainly not when the alternative was Mary, who was lovely and kind and didn't keep body parts in the fridge and who never forgot your friends' names.

"I'll show you," John murmured. "Will you let me show you?"

Sherlock found himself nodding. He had no idea what was happening but for some reason he couldn't fathom, he had said what he wanted out loud and the world hadn't ended and nothing seemed to be on fire.

John put one hand on his chest and Sherlock could feel it burning through his suit jacket and shirt and found himself wishing he wasn't wearing either. John's other hand moved to cup his cheek and Sherlock turned his head into it, wondering if it would be too daring to press his lips to John's palm.

He didn't have to wonder long. A moment later, John rose on his tiptoes and Sherlock found his mouth otherwise occupied with no room to spare for John's palm.

Warm, thin lips on his, the softest barely-there brush.

He gasped and let his mouth fall open, wishing he could inhale with enough force to drag John closer by the sheer pull of his breath. He chased after him instead, bending down to meet him halfway. His hands found John's back and the back of his head and he kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.

He could die like this. He could live forever like this.

Distantly, he was aware of the uneven house wall pressing into his back, of the slowly setting sun shining against his closed right eye that would make him momentary blind later.

None of it mattered, entirely overpowered by John, here, with him, as close as he could possibly get without losing all decency.

Finally, John pulled back just far enough to speak. "Does this make things clearer to you?"

Sherlock wanted to reply but he was too busy panting to form words. He tried to breathe more evenly. "Marginally. There are still some things I am a bit unclear on."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Like how I'm going to get you upstairs and into bed without running into anyone else on the way. They'll all be about ready to leave the dining room by now, I suppose."

"Oh, is that all?" John asked, smiling.

Sherlock shook his head. "There's also the minor concern of how you're going to explain this to Mary but I honestly don't care very much so long as you do. In the meantime, I wonder what would happen if I were to do this..."

He leaned forward a little more and started nuzzling at John's neck, peppering tiny nips and bites along the soft skin under his jaw.

John groaned and arched against him.

"Ah," Sherlock hummed. "That's what happens. How delightful."

He dived back in.

John cursed but it sounded rather half-hearted and out of breath.

"Perfect," Sherlock murmured. "I could do this all day."

"God I hope not," John gasped. "I've got some other ideas for what we could do but we sort of need to solve that pesky problem of getting past the other guests first."

"I'm all ears," Sherlock promised, nipping at John's to underline his point.

"Ngh," John said and pushed Sherlock back against the wall to kiss him again.

Some minutes later, Sherlock said rather breathlessly: "I have decided I don't care who sees us. Let's go inside and upstairs before we lose the ability to walk."

"I think it's too late," John groaned. "But sure, let's try. Who knows, perhaps we can actually do it."

Sherlock smiled and took his hand. "As long as we're together, I think we can do anything."

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_But of course that didn't happen because Sherlock was not prone to giving away sensitive information in ambiguous conversations. And so the pain continued..._

**> >PLAY<<**

Sherlock was not one to pray, but this time he mentally did. "Thought about _what_ , John?"

If he sounded a bit more annoyed and impatient than he should, he really didn't care.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fantastic allsovacant has created a GORGEOUS preliminary cover for this story. Go check it out!

"If you want to sleep, I suggest you do it right away," Sherlock said the moment John closed the door to their room behind them.

John turned to him with an expression that was equal parts surprise and exasperation. "We're sneaking around tonight?"

"Of course," he confirmed, shrugging out of his suit jacket and throwing it over the closest armchair. While they had been at dinner, a maid had come to their room and started a fire which was by now happily crackling in the grate and heating up the place. "I need to get a good look at the crime scene and since we know the killer is still here, I can hardly do it in broad daylight where anyone might see."

"When you put it like this ..." Half an aborted sentence was all it took for John to convey his agreement to the scheme and a moment later he toed out of his shoes, pulled off his jeans and shirt and crawled into bed in his boxers and the t-shirt he wore as an undershirt. Sherlock very casually turned around to inspect the bookshelves at the other end of the room more closely. He wondered if the back of his neck really was on fire and if so, why wasn't John commenting on it?

"Wake me when it's time to go, all right? And with enough time for me to actually get up and get dressed before you're out the door," John ordered, sighing and making the covers rustle as he settled more comfortably into bed.

"Sleep well, John," Sherlock murmured and reached out to switch off the light. The fireplace provided more than enough illumination for him to find his way around the unfamiliar surroundings, should he plan to move. He didn't, though. He lowered himself into one of the armchairs, propped his feet up on the one opposite and leaned back to reconsider his deductions of the other guests.

The hotel owner, a Mr Kingsley from London, had quickly responded to his request for a guest list the day before they had left for the hotel and a quick google search had provided some additional information about them, so he indulged in a minute or two of matching names to faces, made more difficult by the fact that there was no guarantee he was getting it right. However, he didn't call himself a genius for nothing.

The older couple were clearly Mr and Mrs Walczak, the twin sisters were named Olivia and Cecilia Bloomsberg (he would have to find out who was who), the investment banker's name was James Marquis, the crime writer was a Patrick Wiltshire and the corpulent lesbian was called Patricia Long. Hardly difficult leaps to make and he was sure he would get to see the other guests soon enough to match their names as well.

Having finished his short mental exercise, there was nothing left for him to do but turn the possibilities over in his head while he waited for the time to pass and everyone to go to bed. Without an Internet connection his options of keeping himself occupied were limited to brainwork and staring at John. It was therefore no big surprise to him when he emerged from his thoughts to find that he had been doing precisely that for several minutes without being consciously aware of it.

Luckily, neither was John, who still possessed the incredibly useful ability to fall asleep at the drop of a hat thanks to years of army training and further years spent living with Sherlock, who regarded sleep as something that mostly happened to other people while he was working on a case. Usually, he was reminded of the fact that John at least needed to sleep regularly when he did so on the desk or in his armchair, head tilted at an awkward angle and his body in a position not conductive to his back.

However, apart from the few precious split-second glimpses when he burst into John's room in the middle of the night to drag him off to a crime scene or on those rare out-of-town cases where they ended up sharing a room, Sherlock had rarely seen him actually sleep in a bed. Now, there was little reason to expect John to bolt upright and - against his better judgment - Sherlock allowed himself to indulge a little.

After all, this was yet another thing he was unlikely to witness again once this week was over. John asleep, that was. It didn't really matter where. Opportunities to see John sleeping in a bed had always been few and far between, on the rare out-of-town cases where separate hotel rooms were not a possibility. On most of these occasions, John had bullied him into sleeping as well, and so the opportunity to watch him all night had been wasted. And the ultimate version of John sleeping, the very best option of all, was not one he could bear to contemplate at all without losing his mind. It would remain unachievable forever.

Staring at the dimly illuminated form of his best friend sleeping on the too-large bed, he allowed his mind to wander.

*****

One winter, on a particularly fine day with heaps of snow and sunshine, Sherlock had been very young and the proud owner of a brand new sled. The cold air on his cheeks had been biting but that only added to the thrill of racing down the hill behind their house, a slightly bumpy ride towards the cove of trees at the bottom. He hadn't figured out how to steer yet and was headed right for one of the trees when a hare had jumped out of the undergrowth, forcing him to throw himself sideways and tip the sled over to avoid hitting the startled animal. Sherlock had rolled through the snow and come to a stop right next to the tree, bruised and with his mouth full of snow, but otherwise fine. It was only when he sat up that he noticed the broken-off branch sticking out of the tree trunk at just the right height for, say, a young boy on a sled to impale himself on in a direct collision.

For many nights after the incident, Sherlock had tried to imagine what it would have been like. The hard, splintered wood shoving into his chest, breaking ribs and piercing his lung or perhaps even his heart, scraping past his spine and bursting out of his back.

For years, he had thought it was the worst thing he could possibly imagine happening to him.

Then, after meeting John, he had thought that if he ever lost John, it might feel like this. A solid punch to the sternum, smashing through skin and muscle and bone, leaving him impaled, helpless and dying.

Now, staring at John's face, peaceful in sleep, Sherlock knew he had been wrong. Losing John was much worse than that. Being impaled on a splintered branch at least meant he would die and the pain would end.

You can't die from a wound that only exists in your mind.

*****

John woke to a large, warm hand on his shoulder and Sherlock's hushed voice hissing in his ear.

"John! Wake up. Wake up, John!"

"Mmmh?"

"It's time to get up if we want to get a look at the crime scene," Sherlock elaborated, sounding far too awake and excited for-

"Wha' time's it?" John mumbled into his pillow.

"Just gone 2:30 in the morning. Now get up."

John groaned and shoved the covers away, hoping the cooler air would shock him into wakefulness. Sometime while he slept, his t-shirt must have ridden up and he shuddered as the cool air hit his bare skin. Quickly, he pulled the cotton back down. "Gosh, I didn't think it would be quite so cold."

"The fire went out sometime in the night," Sherlock explained helpfully. He looked slightly flushed, which seemed unlikely since the only discernible reason for him to blush would be letting the fire go out and that was not something Sherlock Holmes would be embarrassed about. John ignored the phenomenon.

"And you didn't bother to restart it? Or, you know, keep it from going out in the first place?"

The detective shrugged. "I was thinking, I didn't notice."

"Of course not," John sighed, struggling out of the bed and into his jeans which Sherlock helpfully threw in his direction.

Considering the terribly long drive to this place and the many uneventful hours that had passed since then, John was both surprised and annoyed by how alert Sherlock was. The man was positively vibrating with excitement, for god's sake! As Mrs Hudson would say, it wasn't decent.

They snuck out of the room and along the dark hallway like ghosts, keeping to where the shadows were deepest until they reached the relative safety of the stairs. Here at least they could walk almost normally without having to worry about waking anyone up.

"Where to?"

"Just outside the back entrance to the kitchen," Sherlock murmured. "I suggest we leave through the front door and go around back. I want to see how an outsider might approach and leave unseen."

"But didn't you say the police are wrong?"

"Yes of course, but someone was still stealing food from the kitchen, remember? Probably someone hiding somewhere out in the Highlands, but it's still worth looking into, if only to confirm my point."

The ground floor was deserted and they sneaked past reception and out into the night with no one the wiser. The door, of course, was unlocked.

"You'd think they'd lock up after all the theft and someone being murdered," John muttered.

Sherlock snorted. "Of course not. The thief always came through the kitchen entrance and they believe the murder was a one-off occurrence. Oh, and they leave the front door open for everyone wanting to go out for a smoke."

John sighed and followed him out the door, resigned to at least an hour of standing guard while Sherlock did his thing.

The night was surprisingly warm and smelled of coconuts, thanks to the blooming gorse bushes growing on the hills all around the Inn. John breathed in deeply as he followed Sherlock along the building and around two corners until they reached the entrance to the kitchen. This was where the groceries from the village some eight miles off got delivered to twice a week and this was where the body of the concierge had been found, stabbed to death and covered in blood. Whoever had done the deed had left the door open but no footsteps behind. That was as much as Sherlock had managed to glean from the crime scene pictures, much to his annoyance. He had spent the better part of the car ride complaining about that circumstance and the general lack of professional behaviour that was to be found in rural police officers and their hangers-on.

John had heard it all a thousand times before and now smiled to see Sherlock in his element, sniffing around the deserted crime scene in the middle of the night, his magnifying lens held at the ready as he examined this stone and that piece of dirt in the light of his torch. Every now and again, he would stop, stand straight and look around or pace backwards far enough until he could take in the entire building towering above them.

John stood leaning against the wall right next to the door and watched him, occasionally keeping an eye out in case anyone should happen to stumble upon them. Not that he really expected that to happen. It was far past midnight, closing in on early morning, and every sensible person should be asleep - a fact that said quite a lot about his own state of mind. He chose not to think about it for too long.

Instead, he watched as Sherlock crouched by the place where the body had been found, scratching at the dirt with a small stick and holding his torch between his teeth so he had both hands to examine whatever it was he had found under the soft beam of the artificial light. A moment later he dropped his findings with a huff of annoyance.

"Nothing?"

"Nothing useful," Sherlock growled. "Whoever worked this crime scene did a brilliant job of messing it all up. Any evidence I could have gleaned has long since been destroyed. People have walked all over the place since it happened. There is nothing we can do here."

"So we're back to square one? There's absolutely nothing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A couple of cigarette buds. One of the kitchen staff comes out for regular smoke breaks. Nothing even remotely connected to our case, I'm afraid."

He stood up straight and returned to John's side. "I'll just take a good look at this door and-"

He trailed off abruptly.

John froze, listening intently to figure out what had made Sherlock stop in his tracks.

A moment later, he heard it too: the soft scrape of a shoe on rough ground and the quiet churn of gravel. Someone was coming from the same direction as they had.

Before he could do much more than utter a gasp of surprise, Sherlock had shoved him into a dark niche between the cottage and the massive tower, making John's form all but melt with the shadows. Sherlock himself leaned against the wall several paces away, managing to produce and light a cigarette from somewhere while hiding the torch at the same time.

A man came around the corner of the building and stopped dead when he caught sight of the detective casually leaning against the cottage.

"Bloody hell! What are you doing here?!"

Sherlock made a good show of startling and whirling around, hastily hiding his cigarette behind his back before pretending to recognise the person in front of him and relaxing. "Oh ... sorry, I thought you were John."

The other man relaxed as well and moved closer. "Not allowed to smoke, are you?"

John wished he could get a look at his face but Sherlock clearly didn't want the other man to know they weren't alone, so he had to contend himself with staying where he was and listening intently.

"No," Sherlock made it sound like a confession. "But I'm not much one for relaxing in the countryside and there's not even Internet here, so I thought if I just got in a smoke every now and then I might make it through this week without it all falling apart."

"Is your bloke that strict?"

"He's a doctor," Sherlock said with a shrug. "You know, all the talk about lung cancer and so on and so forth." He took a defiant drag from his cigarette. John decided to berate him for that later. "What about you, then?"

"Similar reasons, I suppose. Well, without the boyfriend. Sometimes you just get too much going through your head and need a way to unwind, you know?"

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly an affliction many people suffer from. Can I offer you one?"

"Got my own, thanks. Wouldn't mind a light, though."

The other man moved to stand next to the detective, gladly accepting his lighter. "Cheers ... uh... I don't even know your name."

"William," Sherlock promptly lied. "William Sigerson. John and I arrived today."

"Believe me, I noticed," the other man said. "There's not too many people here so of course new guests get noticed immediately."

"True, I suppose. And you are ...?"

"Patrick Wiltshire," the man introduced himself. "Sorry, should have introduced myself right away. I'm afraid I'm not at my best right now."

"It happens," Sherlock said, shrugging the apology off. "Tell you what, I won't hold it against you if you promise not to mention any of this to John. He can get terribly cross with me when I smoke. I don't like upsetting him."

"Of course," Wiltshire said. "Wouldn't want to get you in trouble with your man, eh?" He shuffled his feet. "Listen, uh, he doesn't get abusive or anything, does he?"

"John?" Sherlock asked, shocked. "Of course not. No, it's just ... you know, I really suck at this relationship thing and I'm kind of amazed we've made it this far so I don't want to risk it." He exhaled a long stream of smoke. "I don't want him thinking I don't value his opinions. And his concern is touching, in a way."

"Sure," Wiltshire assured him. "I wouldn't want to accidentally endanger your relationship."

"Thank you." Sherlock sounded so relieved, John would have honestly believed he was a man afraid of chasing his boyfriend away with bad behaviour if he hadn't known the detective for years and knew very well that Sherlock didn't give a toss one way or another.

The two men finished their smoke in silence.

"Well then," Wiltshire said, yawning. "I guess I'll get back inside, try to get some shut-eye. Have a good night."

"Night."

Sherlock remained where he was, dropping his finished cigarette to the ground and extinguishing it with his heel as he waited for the other man to vanish.

John waited another ten seconds to make sure Patrick Wiltshire wasn't coming back before stepping out of his hiding place.

"That was close."

"And interesting. Why would he come all the way around the house for a smoke?"

John shrugged. "So did you."

"Yes, but I was pretending to be hiding from your wrath if you caught me. Our window goes out front, there is no chance of you seeing me smoking at the back of the building."

"True. So, why do you think he came?"

"I have no idea. But I'm sure we'll find out in due time."

"Do you still want to examine the door?" He nodded towards the kitchen entrance.

Sherlock nodded. "I might as well. I don't think it will help much, but we shouldn't leave anything uncovered."

He pulled his magnifying lens out of his coat pocket and turned his attention to the door.

"Oh, and Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Don't think I'll let you get away with smoking just because we're undercover."

He couldn't be sure in the dim light but he thought he saw the corner of Sherlock's mouth tilt upwards. "Of course not, John."

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

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_.yltpurba ffo deliart eH_

_"-dna rood siht ta kool doog a ekat tsuj ll'I" .edis s'nhoJ ot denruter dna thgiarts pu doots eH_

_".diarfa m'I ,esac ruo ot detcennoc yletomer neve gnihtoN .skaerb gnikoms raluger rof tuo semoc ffats nehctik eht fo enO .sdub etteragic fo elpuoc A" .deggurhs kcolrehS_

_"?gnihton yletulosba s'erehT ?eno erauqs ot kcab er'ew oS"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if Sherlock had sent John back before Patrick Wiltshire arrived? And what if Sherlock had been more honest?_

**> >PLAY<<**

"So we're back to square one? There's absolutely nothing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A couple of cigarette buds. One of the kitchen staff comes out for regular smoking breaks. Nothing even remotely connected to our case, I'm afraid."

He stood up straight and returned to John's side. "I'll just take a good look at this door and I'd appreciate if you could go back and check the front door in the meantime."

"What am I looking for?"

"Any signs of someone trying to force the lock. Just because the murder happened at the back door doesn't mean the front door can't have been involved."

"Didn't you say it's always unlocked for the smokers?"

"An outsider wouldn't have known that," Sherlock pointed out. "I only know because it says so in the brochure in our room."

John nodded and picked his way around the building towards the front door in the dark. There would be a proper light out front and Sherlock needed the torch at the back door.

He had just about made it almost to the second corner when he heard the front door open and close, followed by someone's footsteps on the gravel. John pressed himself to the wall and listened as the steps moved away from him, towards the other side of the house and around the corner. Right towards Sherlock.

He turned back immediately. He had no intention of announcing his presence but if this stranger was out to hurt Sherlock, he would not be expecting him to have back-up waiting in the shadows.

John reached the dark corner in time to see Sherlock tense at the sound of steps coming his way. John could see him hastily putting the torch away and producing a cigarette and lighter from somewhere.

"Bloody hell, what are you doing here?!"

Sherlock made a good show of startling and whirling around, hastily hiding his cigarette behind his back before pretending to recognise the person in front of him and relaxing. "Oh ... sorry, I thought you were John."

The other man relaxed as well and moved closer. "Not allowed to smoke, are you?"

John wished he could get a look at his face but he didn't want the other man to know they weren't alone, so he had to contend himself with staying where he was and listening intently.

"No," Sherlock made it sound like a confession. "But I'm not much one for relaxing in the countryside and there's not even Internet here, so I thought if I just got in a smoke every now and then I might make it through this week without it all falling apart."

"Is your bloke that strict?"

"He's a doctor," Sherlock said with a shrug. "You know, all the talk about lung cancer and so on and so forth." He took a defiant drag from his cigarette. John decided to berate him for that later. "What about you, then?"

"Similar reasons, I suppose. Well, without the boyfriend. Sometimes you just get too much going through your head and need a way to unwind, you know?"

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly an affliction many people suffer from. Can I offer you one?"

"Got my own, thanks. Wouldn't mind a light, though."

The other man moved to stand next to the detective, gladly accepting his lighter. "Cheers ... uh... I don't even know your name."

"William," Sherlock promptly lied. "William Sigerson. John and I arrived today."

"Believe me, I noticed," the other man said. "There's not too many people here so of course new guests get noticed immediately."

"True, I suppose. And you are ...?"

"Patrick Wiltshire," the man introduced himself. "Sorry, should have introduced myself right away. I'm afraid I'm not at my best right now."

"It happens," Sherlock said, shrugging the apology off. "Tell you what, I won't hold it against you if you promise not to mention any of this to John. He can get terribly cross with me when I smoke. I don't like upsetting him."

"Of course," Wiltshire said. "Wouldn't want to get you in trouble with your man, eh?" He shuffled his feet. "Listen, uh, he doesn't get abusive or anything, does he?"

"John?" Sherlock asked, shocked. "Of course not. No, it's just ... you know, I really suck at this relationship thing and I'm kind of amazed we've made it this far so I don't want to risk it." He exhaled a long stream of smoke. "I don't want him thinking I don't value his opinions. And his concern is touching, in a way."

"Sure," Wiltshire assured him. "I wouldn't want to accidentally endanger your relationship."

They stood in silence for a couple of seconds and then Sherlock blurted: "I'm losing him."

"Pardon?"

"John," Sherlock said. "He's leaving me. He won't admit it, not even to himself, but I can see it happening. Every day he slips a little bit farther away and there is nothing I can do to stop him."

Wiltshire seemed to take a moment to formulate a reply. "I'm sorry, mate."

"Not your fault," Sherlock said, clearly trying to adopt an unaffected air and failing utterly. "I was never much good at any of this. Sentiment. I know there's someone else, he's never made a secret out of that. I just ... I suppose I deluded myself into thinking he'd change his mind before it's too late."

There was something in the way he said it, in the way he phrased his words so carefully to avoid lying, that made John think that perhaps Sherlock was being rather more honest than he would have wanted John to witness.

"That sucks," Wiltshire said. "Have you told him?"

"No. I'm trying to hold on for as long as I still can. I thought if I could just get him out here, just the two of us, he'd realise he doesn't need anyone else."

Even from several feet away and around a corner, the pain in his voice sounded too real to be written off as good acting.

John felt his stomach drop.

But Sherlock wasn't finished, as though a floodgate had opened somewhere inside him. "I keep opening my mouth to tell him but it's never the right moment or he'll say something to remind me he's already made his choice. And it isn't me and I always knew it never would be, so what's the point? I've got a couple of weeks left and I can tell you the precise time and date I'll lose him. And he's making me organise it all. I've always been a good liar but they could give me a bloody Oscar for my current performance. I'm writing a speech on how happy I am to lose him and every word of it makes me want to stab myself with the pen."

He shut his mouth with a click of his teeth and took a shaky breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean to dump this on you."

"It sounded like you needed to. Bloody hell, mate, I say cut your losses and leave now."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't. He's counting on me, trusting me to be there for him. I left him behind once - perhaps this is my punishment. But I'd rather go blind and deaf than miss out on even a minute of the time I have left with him."

"That's not healthy, mate," Wiltshire said quietly.

Sherlock snorted. "Not to worry. When it gets too bad, there's always my old friend the cocaine."

John's blood turned to ice in his veins. Suddenly feeling like an intruder and remembering the task Sherlock had given him, he backed away. He needed a moment to regroup, to let Sherlock's words sink in fully and think about what to do next.

He snuck back the way he had come and returned to the front door. As he examined it for signs of a recent break-in, his thoughts continued to race.

He didn't think for even a moment that Sherlock had been acting. The emotions in his voice were too raw and the way he had phrased certain things to avoid uttering a direct lie was too deliberate to make his speech anything but the truth.

Which meant that Sherlock was torturing himself because John had thoughtlessly asked him to. Because John had failed to stop for even a moment and take Sherlock's feelings into account. Because John hadn't known Sherlock had feelings he should take into account. Well, at least not this kind of feelings.

But he sounded so raw and so hurt ... and so determined to endure it, all for John's sake.

It made him feel a bit sick, actually. To have caused Sherlock such pain and to keep doing it, never knowing, never realising...

_'And I could have kept doing it, if I hadn't heard him just now,'_ he thought _. 'He's so good at pretending, I never would have known it was killing him.'_

His stomach churned at the thought and the closed his eyes and tipped his head back, hoping against hope that the cool night air would help him settle down.

Some minutes later, he could hear two pairs of footsteps approaching and just about managed to pull himself together before Sherlock and Patrick Wiltshire turned the corner. They both startled at the sight of him - or, in Sherlock's case, pretended to - and John forced a stern look on his face.

"There you are," he said. "I was worried when I woke up and you were gone. And who is this?"

"John, this is Patrick. Patrick, John. We were just ..."

"Smoking," John finished.

Patrick looked from one of them to the other, clearly unsure how to act. "Uh ... I guess I'll just ... um, leave you to it," he stammered. "Good night."

"Good night," they chorused.

Sherlock only waited long enough for Patrick to close the front door behind himself before stepping closer. "Well played, I don't think he realised what was really going on here. Did you find anything at the door?"

John looked at him, really looked at him for the first time in far too long, wishing it wasn't quite so dark out here. He took in the dark circles under Sherlock's eyes, the carefully constructed neutral facade, the fact that Sherlock's hands were barely shaking at all and no one who wasn't looking for it would have noticed.

The sick feeling returned and he made himself breathe through his nose.

Sherlock, of course, noticed. "John? Are you all right? You look a bit ... ill." And now he sounded honestly concerned and John couldn't stand it. "Was it something you ate? Perhaps I'll uncover a food scandal while we're here. Please don't get sick."

John couldn't bear another moment of this. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock blinked. "Tell you what? I didn't know the food would be unreliable. I shall have a look around the kitchen tomorrow and-"

John shook his head and made himself ask: "Why didn't you tell me you are in love with me?"

Even in the dim light, he could see Sherlock's already pale complexion pale further. "I don't understand."

"I heard you," John said. "I was almost at the corner when Patrick came out and I snuck back to keep an eye out in case he turned out to be dangerous. I heard every word you said to him."

"John..." Sherlock took a step backwards, hunching his shoulders. "I wasn't ... I was just trying to distract him from wondering why I was out there, I didn't..."

John shook his head. "No. I know when you're lying. And you weren't lying about anything you said to him. Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth for a few times but no words came out. Finally, he pressed his lips together in a tight line and John could see his chin wobble ever so slightly. The sight cut him to the core.

To make matters worse, Sherlock blinked rapidly and finally found his voice. "What is there to say? It doesn't matter. My feelings are not important and never have been. All I ever wanted was for you to be alive and happy."

_'My feelings are not important.'_

The simple statement kept echoing in John's mind. An admission, as if he had needed one, but also a damning piece of evidence of just how much he had misjudged his best friend.

"Your feelings are the most important thing in the world to me," he found himself saying. "I only ever wanted you to be alive and happy as well."

"One out of two isn't that bad," Sherlock offered, dropping his gaze to the ground.

John shook his head. "It's not good, either. I want you to be happy, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave him the saddest smile he had ever seen. "Give me a couple of years and I might be."

"I want you to be happy right now," John said. "You deserve to be happy just as much as I do."

"Mary makes you happy," Sherlock said and there was a world of pain in his voice. "You can't have it both ways, John."

"Mary makes me _content_ ," John replied, for once honest even with himself. "But that's not the same thing. _You_ make me _happy_. And I'm not losing you again."

Sherlock stared at him in disbelief. "That's not how it works, John."

"Of course it is. Given the choice between merely content with my lot and happy, I will take happy any day. Even if it comes with body parts in the fridge and sleepless nights and people trying to kill me on a weekly basis." Even as he spoke, he realised the full truth of what he was saying. "I've never been happier than I was with you and I have never been lower than I was when I thought I'd lost you. Now will you please, _please_ , come here and kiss me?"

Sherlock did.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_But perhaps it was a good thing this never happened. Perhaps it would have been too cruel to them both, and to poor Patrick Wiltshire, who only wanted a quiet smoke and hadn't meant to cause any drama. And instead ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

He stood up straight and returned to John's side. "I'll just take a good look at this door and-"

He trailed off abruptly.

John froze, listening intently to figure out what had made Sherlock stop in his tracks.

A moment later, he heard it too: the soft scrape of a shoe on rough ground and the quiet churn of gravel. Someone was coming from the same direction as they had.

Before he could do much more than utter a gasp of surprise, Sherlock had shoved him into a dark niche between the cottage and the massive tower, making John's form all but melt with the shadows. Sherlock himself leaned against the wall several paces away, managing to produce and light a cigarette from somewhere.

 


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Sherlock pretended to be absorbed in a book as John finally stirred. He had gone straight back to bed after their small nightly outing, apparently utterly unconcerned by the things Sherlock had said about him to Patrick.

_'Idiot. He probably thinks you were shamming the entire time,'_ his mind berated him. He chose to ignore it.

"What time is it?" John asked from the bed, sounding far more awake than he had when he asked the same question last night.

"Almost time for breakfast," Sherlock informed him. He had been able to hear John's stomach rumble its disapproval for the past ten minutes and was surprised it had taken him that long to wake up.

John yawned and stretched, unconsciously granting Sherlock the guilty pleasure of watching his t-shirt ride up his torso. He allowed his eyes to linger on the curve of John's hip bones for a moment or two before pretending to return his attention to his book.

"Good," John said, utterly oblivious. "I'm starving."

_'Me too'_ Sherlock thought. It was moments like this where he wanted to throw caution to the wind, forget all about his vague plan to go slowly (too slowly, perhaps, he was running out of time) and definitely forget all about Mary and just crawl onto the bed and press John down into the mattress and-

\- and get punched in the face, probably.

The thought was sobering and he sighed in defeat. He had less than six days left and the clock was ticking. He was starting to think that perhaps he should just give up and let sleeping dogs lie.

"You haven't slept at all, have you?" John asked, his voice muffled.

"Of course not," Sherlock said contemptuously, turning to give John his patented glare - and stopped short when he realised John was in no position to see thanks to the jumper covering his head.

It wouldn't have been so bad if only he had thought to pull on his jeans first. But he hadn't and Sherlock was left staring dumbfoundedly at strong legs and red (his brain almost flat-lined at the sight) pants.

He tore his gaze away a split second before John managed to untangle himself from his jumper and caught him staring. Knowing what was expected, Sherlock cleared his throat, allowing amusement to tinge his voice. "Interesting colour scheme."

"Oh, stuff it, you git," John replied good-naturedly, clearly not at all put off. "Those are my lucky pants, if you must know."

"I have absolutely no idea what to do with this information," Sherlock told him truthfully.

John laughed. "No, you wouldn't. Let's just say I didn't get shot when I was wearing them in Afghanistan. But I definitely got laid a lot."

Sherlock grinned, which was the expected response among straight male friends in his experience. "I wasn't aware one needed magical pants for that."

"Why, what did you do?" The moment the question was out of his mouth, John looked ready to swallow his tongue.

Sherlock's grin widened and he shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I walked into a bar, picked my target and talked them round. Not that that ever took much time or effort, mind. I'm sure you have noticed that I can be very persuasive when I pitch my voice _just so_." He dropped his voice by at least two octaves in the end, adding a low growl for good measure.

"Oh ... yeah. Guess that would work," John conceded.

Was Sherlock imagining the light flush on his cheeks? He had to be.

Forcing his attention back to the book although he had already deleted everything about its contents, Sherlock waited until John was done getting dressed and had made use of the bathroom. When John came back out, however, Sherlock found himself wishing he would have stayed in longer.

"What's up with you, by the way?"

He blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You've been unnaturally open about your ... uh ... personal life," John pointed out. "When we met, I couldn't even get a straight-" He paused and laughed lightly "-answer out of you on the topic and suddenly you are willing to discuss your methods of picking up people with me when I've just woken up?"

Sherlock shrugged. "We've known each other for a long time, John. Why shouldn't I be willing to confide in you?"

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Confiding in me."

That was a dangerous question to ask and Sherlock wished John would take it back. In the end, he settled for the easy way out. "Of course, John. I do trust you, after all."

"I ... all right. Thank you." John sounded a little lost, as if he didn't quite know what to do with that information. "I trust you, too."

"You follow me into dangerous situations on a regular basis, John. I should very much hope you trust me."

"Ha. Point taken."

They grinned at each other and Sherlock felt some of the tension ease off his spine. Perhaps it would all be fine, if only John would stop being so obtuse all the time. Surely no one could be _that_ oblivious?

He didn't get any more time to ponder the issue as John was determined to drag him down to the dining hall for breakfast, making it very clear that Sherlock was definitely going to eat something.

"I'm on a case, John!"

"And it will look very suspicious if you refuse to eat for a week," John pointed out.

Sherlock had to concede that it wasn't an entirely illogical argument. "Fine. But I want coffee."

"You can have a pot of the stuff if it means you'll eat a proper breakfast," John said. "And I'll be the one who decides what a proper breakfast is, because if you do it, you'll eat half a dry toast."

"Fine." There was only so much arguing over food that Sherlock could take. And so far it wasn't a very taxing case, so he wouldn't be drawing off indispensable energy used for brainwork.

They continued down to the dining hall in companionable silence.

*****

John wasn't surprised at all to find they were the first guests down for breakfast. Hell, everyone else was probably still asleep, much the same way he would like to be. But sleeping with a very awake and also very bored Sherlock Holmes in the same room was practically impossible, so he had long since given up on that hope. And, he reminded himself grimly, it was not a problem he would continue to have for much longer.

The thought filled him with sadness.

Certainly his marriage was something to look forward to and he couldn't wait to call Mary his wife. He simply didn't like how this would affect his friendship with Sherlock. Obviously they wouldn't be able to spend as much time together as they used to, but that had been an issue ever since Sherlock's return. Now it would simply grow even more pronounced.

He sighed and forced himself to pay attention to the food he was loading onto his plate. There was no point in wracking his brain about the issue. There was nothing he could do about it.

What he could do, however, was watch Sherlock and make sure he actually ate and took care of himself.

_'Much good that will do. I can hardly fatten him up and expect it to last when we don't see each other for days on end,'_ he thought. Automatically, his eyes sought out Sherlock, who was standing by the coffee machine. He looked thin and weary, more so than usually, and John hated it. If this was what Sherlock looked like even with him around, how long would he last when John was gone?

It was a ridiculous thought, of course. Certainly Sherlock was fully capable of looking after himself and had done so for many years before their paths had crossed. Hell, he had even done a credible job of keeping himself alive while pretending to be dead for two years. Surely he would be fine.

John sighed again. Clearly this worry stemmed from lingering fear of Sherlock dying. Part of him had not forgotten what that had felt like, after all, and he wasn't keen on a repetition. Losing him once had been bad enough, thank you very much.

"They aren't poisoned," a deep voice rumbled beside him.

Startled, he looked up to find Sherlock right next to him. "What?"

"The eggs." His friend nodded at the buffet. "They're not poisoned. There's no need to look at them like that. Either take some or don't."

"Right. Yeah, sorry. I just ... got lost in thought."

"A sure sign that you aren't as familiar with thoughts as you should be," Sherlock pointed out. "You wouldn't get lost in them otherwise."

"Oh, because you're never lost in thought!" John snorted in disbelief.

Sherlock looked honestly baffled at the idea. "Of course not. I know every corner of my mind palace, John. Why on earth would I get lost in it? You don't get lost in Baker Street, do you?"

"Fine, you win," John conceded, giving him a defiant look as he loaded some eggs onto his plate. "God, I miss Mary's breakfast. Nothing wrong with this one, of course, but she makes this amazing omelet and-"

He broke off, realising that Sherlock was no longer standing next to him. Typical. "Wanker."

He went to grab two slices of toast and returned to their table, where Sherlock was already buttering his toast with the air of someone performing a hateful task under duress, like a student doing his homework.

"Don't look like that, the toast won't kill you. On the contrary."

"The coffee better be worth it," Sherlock growled.

"Consider it a sacrifice for the sake of the work," John suggested.

The look his friend threw him was completely unreadable. "I believe I've made enough sacrifices already, thank you very much."

John shrugged, biting into his own toast. "Most of those sacrifices seem to stem from my wardrobe, so I won't argue that point."

Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to claim the 'sacrifices' had all been for science and were therefore legitimate, but at that moment the door opened and Patrick Wiltshire entered the room, looking like someone who hadn't slept much and was in desperate need of coffee. He nodded at them - or rather, Sherlock - on his way to the coffee maker and didn't pay them any further attention while he waited for the black liquid to run through.

Shortly afterward some of the other guests arrived, including the Walczaks and the identical twin sisters whose names John didn't know yet. Sherlock probably did, so he resolved to ask him later. Better to know who he was dealing with. It wasn't as if he could chat them up - he wouldn't even know which of the two to go for, for one thing.

He did notice that neither of the sisters looked very happy, however.

"Looks like the twins had a falling out," he observed idly.

Sherlock blinked and raised his head from his breakfast to glance across the room. "They're competing for the attention of Mr Marquis."

"Who?"

"James Marquis. The investment banker." He said it as if it was obvious.

"Ah. Of course." John rolled his eyes at himself and took a sip of his tea, almost scalding his tongue in the process. "Bloody hell, that's hot."

"Didn't know you were one of those men," Sherlock muttered.

"What men?"

"Who go for the whole twin thing."

"I don't- oh. Clever." John groaned. "You shouldn't try and make jokes like that, Sherlock. Someone might actually get a wrong impression and think you're funny."

"I can be funny when I choose to," the detective defended himself. "It doesn't serve any purpose, however, so I decided not to bother."

"If you say so." John grinned at him. "So, the twins had a falling out over the investment banker. What does he think of that?"

"No idea. He isn't here yet. I suppose he is taking advantage of the chance to sleep in and won't be up for hours yet. We should keep an eye on the situation in any case. Passion gone wrong always makes a good motive for murder."

"But all three of them are alive."

"So far," Sherlock said ominously. "The sisters might turn on each other in their rivalry or form an alliance against Marquis should he make it clear that he favours neither of them. One can never know."

John groaned. "I think we've got enough death already. The last thing we need is a second, entirely separate, crime scene on top of the other."

"Good point," Sherlock agreed. "But imagine how interesting it would be! So much to deduce, so many threads to untangle! And in such a limited amount of time! Fantastic!"

"Ah, yes. Heaven forbid you get bored by having to solve a murder in less than a week," John grumbled. "Anyway, if you do solve it and we like the hotel, I think I might bring Mary here on a holiday sometime. She'd love it here."

Sherlock didn't respond, too busy observing Mr Walczak as he poured tea for his wife.

Realising that their conversation was over, John returned his attention to his breakfast.

*****

Upon leaving the breakfast hall some time later, they almost walked into a group of guests who had apparently been waiting for them.

"Oh, are you the new ones?" a woman with a surprising amount of curly red hair asked - the same woman they had seen sitting alone at dinner. Sherlock gave her a quick once-over and concluded she was one of those people who, instead of falling victim to low self-esteem issues due to their weight instead embraced their body and were more confident than most of their thinner counterparts. He quite liked that personality type.

"As it happens, we are," he therefore said. "William Sigerson. This is John."

"Patricia Long," she introduced herself. They shook hands and she introduced the people standing with her, the young couple they had seen at dinner the night before. As Sherlock had correctly guessed, they were newlyweds on their honeymoon. Arthur and Eliza Channing were friendly if a bit slow for his taste, but that description fit almost everyone on the planet, so he chose to overlook that fault.

As was to be expected, everyone instantly took a shine to John. All these years in his company had not yet cured Sherlock of his amazement at the other man's ability to make himself popular wherever he went. John may be abysmal at making lasting friendships, as evidenced by their own, but he had a knack for collecting an insane number of acquaintances and "mates" who popped in and out of his life at the most convenient or inconvenient times.

"You know, I get the feeling you were waiting for us," John now said, smiling benignly. "Anything we can help you with?"

"You caught us." Arthur didn't sound the least bit embarrassed. "We were curious as to who would show up here at this hotel at such a time."

"Why wouldn't we? Is there anything we should know? There's no legionella in the water, is there?"

John's wry question drew laughter, which Sherlock recognised as an ice-breaker, something he himself had never successfully accomplished as far as he could remember.

"Oh no, nothing like that." Eliza lowered her voice to a dramatic whisper. "Someone's been murdered."

"What, here? You're pulling my leg." John's disbelief was so well-acted, Sherlock might have fallen for it himself, if he hadn't recognised the glitter of amusement in John's eyes.

Patricia nodded vigorously. "Oh yes. The only concierge. Freddy, that's his name. Found stabbed to death just outside the back door to the kitchen!"

"I never heard a word of it!" John said, amazed. "William, did you know?"

Sherlock, surprised by the sound of his first name from John's lips, took a second to respond. "No one told me, no. I suppose it was quite recently, since you're all still here?"

"Sometime early Wednesday morning the police said." Patricia's eyes were gleaming with the joy of interesting gossip.

"Do they know who did it? Has anyone been arrested?" Sherlock asked, making sure to sound suitably curious about the entire thing.

It was Eliza who replied with a shake of her head. "They haven't arrested anyone yet but we've been assured that it was someone from outside the hotel. Apparently there have been some food thefts from the kitchens. They think Freddy just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Poor sod," Arthur added, shaking his head sadly. "I got to talking to him a bit when we arrived. He was very nice. Quite proud of this new watch he'd gotten himself, showed it off at every opportunity. He said it was the first thing of any value he had bought since he took the job here."

Eliza nodded in agreement. "He went on and on about how he was going to propose to his girlfriend at the next possible opportunity. She'd gone to South Africa as an au-pair for three months. The poor girl must be devastated!"

"Is that why you haven't left, then?" John asked. "Because it was someone from outside?"

"I wanted to leave right away, keep Eliza safe," Arthur explained. "But she was quite adamant that we stay. And she was right. It is highly unlikely that any of us are in danger and the hotel is so lovely ... we don't want it to be ruined by this tragic death."

"He certainly wouldn't want it to have to close just because he kicked the bucket," Patricia agreed. "I for one don't intend to let it spoil my holiday. Getting away from my family with all their thinly veiled hints about finding a nice man and settling down is a blessing and I won't allow some bastard of a killer to ruin it or this wonderful place for me."

"Well said," Arthur complimented her, apparently ignorant to the fact that he was hardly the person to comment on other people's settling down. Sherlock had to bite his lip to refrain from pointing that out.

"Poor Imogen has been crying for days about it," Eliza sighed. "That's one of the maids," she added for Sherlock and John's benefit. "Mrs Hendriksen made her take some time off to get her bearings."

"Don't be silly," Patricia gave a snort. "She's still broken up about that loser who left her at the altar in Guildford. Everything makes her cry these days. And she showed me a picture once - that Freddie had similar looks to her bastard fiance, so it hit her extra hard. All I can say is: If it had been him, then good riddance."

She shrugged. "She's a nice young thing and he's a moron for letting her go, but that's men for you. No offense."

"None taken," John said cheerfully.

He was clearly going to continue by telling them all about his own engagement, so Sherlock subtly nudged him with his elbow.

"I'm afraid John and I must be on our way now," he said before John could draw attention to his action. "Why don't we meet up for drinks after lunch and continue our conversation? It sounds as if the hotel management has kept us in the dark about quite a big event here. I would like to know the particulars before deciding whether it is indeed safe to stay." To add extra emphasis, he raised his arm so his hand came to rest on the small of John's back - possessive and protective.

Exchanging knowing glances, the others quickly agreed and Sherlock turned to leave, fully aware of John following in his wake.

"You do know they all think we're going up to our room for a shag now, don't you?" John asked the moment they were out of earshot, sounding quite exasperated.

Sherlock shrugged. "Your point?"

"We aren't!"

It took quite a bit of willpower not to flinch. "Yes, John, I am aware of that. However, I do not see how their perceptions matter to our situation."

"It matters because I'm engaged to a lovely, wonderful woman, and these people now think I'm gay!" John snapped.

"Yes, and thanks to my interruption, they have no idea about your engagement. Do stop and think for a moment, John. No one here knows you aren't interested in men, therefore no one thinks you are cheating on your fiancèe with me."

"Oh, is that supposed to reassure me?" John demanded, opening the door to their room with more force than strictly necessary. "Because it really doesn't."

Sherlock sighed and turned to face him. "So they think you're gay. _So what_ , John? Do you feel threatened in your masculinity? Is the idea of being with a man, of being with me, so repulsive you don't even want others falsely believing it?"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had been too harsh. John wasn't homophobic - something Sherlock was fully aware of. His relationship to his sister may be strained, but the problem was her being an alcoholic, not her being a lesbian. His own overreaction just now may very well be the final straw that tipped John off to what was really going on.

_'Idiot'_ he chastised himself mentally, furious at his own stupidity.

It took him a moment to realise that John hadn't replied. He merely stood by the door, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "That was uncalled for."

"Sherlock ..." John swallowed audibly. "You don't ... you don't really think that's what I think, do you?"

He shook his head. "Of course not."

"Good. Because I don't." John ran a hand through his hair, a clear sign of his being at a loss. "Look, I realise I could have handled that better. I just ... we've been hearing the same comments and suspicions for years and I thought I'd be rid of those now. And now we're here and it's just as it's always been. Don't you ever get tired of it?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said, biting his tongue to keep from adding: _'I do so hate having everyone assume you're mine and hearing you deny it.'_

"And you know I would never ... god, Sherlock, I don't care who anyone sleeps with, so long as they're consenting adults and it's not my fiancée."

"No, I know that. I apologise, I was merely overreacting."

"Clearly," John said in an impressive imitation of Sherlock himself. "Care to tell me why?"

Sherlock sighed - and told him a half-truth. "I told you when we arrived that we would simply let people assume what they do. Yet the moment someone did, you got ready to tell them all about Mary and how we were merely good mates and then got angry with me for preventing you from doing so. We're hardly unknown faces, John. Fake names and the remote location are rather thin disguises as it is; you giving them further information about us is hardly going to help. What do you think will happen if the killer realises who I am?"

"Oh." John paused, scratched the back of his neck. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

"Obviously," Sherlock told him snidely. "Do try and keep it in mind, though. I would hate to get killed because you had to blab on and on about _Mary_."

That, as it turned out, was his second mistake.

John immediately bristled. "Excuse me?! I don't _'blab'_ about anyone, Sherlock, and I'll be thankful if you don't use her name like an insult."

Sherlock sighed again - this was precisely why he hated sentiment. It only served to mess everything up.

"I merely wish to solve this case without anyone figuring out who I am before I'm done. At the same time, I'm not sure why you feel the need to inform everyone about your fiancèe - all it will accomplish is to make them think you are cheating on her with a man. That's hardly an image you would aspire to. Am I wrong?"

John offered no reply, which Sherlock took as confirmation. "That's what I thought. So why don't you try and hold back for a bit? Just one week, that's all I'm asking. One week where Mary doesn't exist and we go about our business, like we used to. One week where we go back to the way things were before."

He was well aware of the desperation that had seeped into his voice towards the end of his little speech and could only hope that John wouldn't pick up on it or, if he did, that he would attribute it to the wrong reasons.

Long seconds passed as John considered his words.

"Fine," he finally said and Sherlock wanted to collapse in relief. "Fine. But only because this is the way that makes the most sense."

At this point, Sherlock didn't even care any more. "Of course."

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_".rof dellacnu saw tahT" .derettum eh ",yrros m'I" .depmuls sredluohs s'kcolrehS_

_.dewaj-kcals dna deye-ediw ,rood eht yb doots ylerem eH .deilper t'ndah nhoJ taht esilaer ot tnemom a mih koot tI_

_"?ti gniveileb yleslaf srehto tnaw neve t'nod uoy evisluper os ,em htiw gnieb fo ,nam a htiw gnieb fo aedi eht sI ?ytinilucsam ruoy ni denetaerht leef uoy oD ?nhoJ ,tahw oS .yag er'uoy kniht yeht oS" .mih ecaf ot denrut dna dehgis kcolrehS_

_".t'nseod yllaer ti esuaceB" .yrassecen yltcirts naht ecrof erom htiw moor rieht ot rood eht gninepo ,dednamed nhoJ "?em erussaer ot desoppus taht si ,hO"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

But what if Sherlock hadn't stopped there?

**> >PLAY<<**

"Oh, is that supposed to reassure me?" John demanded, opening the door to their room with more force than strictly necessary. "Because it really doesn't."

Sherlock sighed and turned to face him. "So they think you're gay. _So what_ , John? Do you feel threatened in your masculinity? Is the idea of being with a man, of being with _me_ , so repulsive you don't want others even falsely believing it?"

He snatched in a breath and more words came tumbling out of his mouth. "Because lord knows I'm very well aware that you don't fancy me like that and I wish you'd _stop rubbing it in_ at every possible opportunity!"

The moment the words were out of his mouth, he knew he had fucked up. John wasn't homophobic - something Sherlock was fully aware of. His relationship to his sister may be strained, but the problem was her being an alcoholic, not her being a lesbian. But it was unlikely John would even focus on that because Sherlock's final sentence had been too much.

_'Idiot'_ he chastised himself mentally, furious at his own stupidity.

It took him a moment to realise that John hadn't replied. He merely stood by the door, wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "Just ... forget it."

John was still staring at him and not saying a word.

"Or don't," Sherlock said, suddenly angry. "After all, what difference does it make? I've been meaning to say this for months, might as well finally get it over with now. So here goes: Coming back after two years of horror and torture to find you engaged nearly killed me and planning your wedding for you is destroying me and I don't know how ... how I will make it through the day itself, much less put a smile on my face for the occasion. I can't pretend losing you is cause for celebration."

He made himself breathe before continuing. "I'm sorry. This isn't what you signed up for and it's not how I meant this week to go, but I think it needed to be said. You can just ... take the car and return home if you like. I'll make my own way once I've solved this case."

Silence. He had said all he wanted to say, all he had needed to say. And god, it felt good, an entire mountain range lifting off his chest. It was good to finally be honest, to get to say what was on his mind and mean it.

It didn't matter what would happen next. He would either lose John right now or later. The final outcome would be the same and at least now John knew. If Sherlock was lucky, he wouldn't even have to attend the wedding.

"Thank God!"

Sherlock's head jerked up and he gaped at John in surprise. "What?"

And John, confusing, amazing John, was laughing and looking so relieved. "I am ... so glad. God Sherlock, you have no idea."

To Sherlock's utter confusion, he found himself engulfed in a hug, held so tightly he had trouble breathing. He didn't really care, not with John's arms around him.

"I don't understand."

So John explained. At length. His voice was muffled by the fact that he kept his face pressed to Sherlock's chest throughout but Sherlock would rather take a bullet than suggest he move as much as a centimeter.

The gist of it was this: in a toss-up between Sherlock and Mary, Sherlock always won.

It didn't make much sense to Sherlock but he suspected it didn't have to, so long as John knew what he was about and if it meant - as seemed increasingly likely - that he would get to keep John. Or perhaps even get more of John. It was a very neat idea and he didn't think he needed to know anything else to be completely and utterly satisfied.

So Sherlock did what he always did when things should be happening but weren't. He got impatient.

"Yes, yes, John, I'm sure it's all very reasonable but can you please save all that for when you see Mary and just kiss me now? I'm waiting here."

John laughed. "Come here, you."

For this, at least, they didn't need any explanations at all.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_They might have resolved their issues there and then. They could have avoided the confusion and pain. But they didn't and so the moment slipped through their hands, as so many others already had. And instead ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry," he muttered. "That was uncalled for."

"Sherlock ..." John swallowed audibly. "You don't ... you don't really think that's what I think, do you?"

He shook his head. "Of course not."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your continued support and enthusiasm for this story! Your comments and kudos mean the world to me. You are getting this update early as I'm going to the theatre tonight and won't have time to update then. Enjoy!

Initially, John had wanted to think about Sherlock's suggestion for longer than the meagre handful of seconds he had ended up with, but there had been something wild and desperate in his friend's eyes. It was deeply unsettling, seeing Sherlock act like this. Their entire conversation had been nothing but unsettling, in fact.

Sherlock had never before gotten upset about him correcting other people's assumptions. In fact, he hadn't even commented on it once, not as far as John could remember.

Then again, Sherlock's behaviour had been off during the entire trip so far and they had only arrived yesterday, for god's sake. His sudden willingness to share his personal life - or what personal life he used to have - had already been highly suspicious on its own, but this sudden outburst ... well.

He looked genuinely sorry about it, too, which was even more worrying. Sherlock rarely allowed anyone to glimpse his emotions at all and for him to act like this, something must be terribly amiss. John only wished he knew what it was.

Alas, since his friend didn't give the impression that any answers on that score would be forthcoming, John decided to ignore the entire subject and simply go along with whatever Sherlock came up with, no matter how insane. In the end, that was what he always did anyway.

"So," he finally said after a couple of minutes of silence. "What now?"

"Now I'm going to take a shower," Sherlock informed him. "And after that I'm going to charm the cook into telling me everything about this scandalous murder no one bothered to tell us about. As an outraged guest worried for my safety, I will of course demand to know what the hell is going on. And perhaps I'll even get some scones out of the deal."

John raised his eyebrows in shock. "Are you voluntarily going to eat something this soon after breakfast?"

Privately, he wondered if perhaps Sherlock was ill. That would certainly explain his odd behaviour. Fever-induced mood swings. He didn't _look_ particularly feverish, but John had seen him walk around with every appearance of good health mere minutes after being tasered by a killer with a cattle prod. There was no limit to Sherlock's acting skills when he didn't want someone to see behind his facade.

"Don't be daft. I'll be storing them in here so we can have a midnight snack when we sneak out later tonight to search the attic."

John blinked. "We're going to search the attic?"

Sherlock paused in the act of unbuttoning his shirt. "Yes of course."

"Why?"

"Because there was no sign of a murder weapon anywhere and in a house that old, everyone who has secrets will be hiding them in the attic. Narrativum, John. People always feel compelled to do what they have read in a story somewhere. It's ridiculous. All this wilderness around us and you can bet the killer left the weapon right here in this house. It's just waiting to be found. Now, if you will excuse me."

He tugged the shirt off his shoulders, threw it across the nearest chair and disappeared into the bathroom.

John was left gaping after him.

Clearly something was wrong with Sherlock. In all the months since his return, he had not allowed anyone to see him even partially undressed, as far as John was aware. Apparently, their earlier argument had shaken him enough to momentarily forget about this new, self-imposed rule. And now John knew why such behaviour had been necessary in the first place.

The angry web of scars on his back had been visible all the way across the room.

On the other side of the bathroom door, he heard a soft curse and the shower being turned on.

That would give him at least ten uninterrupted minutes to think about what he had just seen and to come up with a way to ask Sherlock about it without screaming at the top of his voice. His chest felt oddly tight at the mere thought.

Whatever he could possibly say, there was no way this would not turn into another argument, quite possibly including the sentences "You should have told me" and "It's none of your business" along with "It's just transport". He couldn't decide which of them was the worst option and didn't really want to find out.

Perhaps this was another thing it would be best to ignore. That was all they seemed to be doing these days - ignoring the issue and pretending everything was as it should be. The longer it went on, the surer John was that something was most decidedly wrong. If only he could put his finger on what the hell it was.

Pursing his lips and resolutely turning his back on the door, John decided that enough was enough. He would wait until this case was solved and the murderer caught, and then he was going to pull Sherlock aside, maybe lock him in a room or tie him down on a chair, and make him talk.

He wondered if he could possibly talk Sherlock into charming the cook into giving him a bottle of whiskey later. John had a feeling he might need it to loosen both their tongues. That stiff British upper lip was going to be the death of them and he wouldn't mind a bit of liquid courage. Also, getting Sherlock drunk could be all kinds of heretofore undiscovered fun.

So far he had seen Sherlock high on tranquiliser and various painkillers, as well as drugged at Baskerville.

On second thought, maybe inducing a panic attack in his best friend wouldn't exactly help their situation. Perhaps he should ask around and see if anyone had a bit of weed.

*****

Idiot. He was an _idiot_. An utter moron. An imbecile.

Sherlock stood with his forehead pressed to the cool tiles, barely resisting the urge to hammer his head against them repeatedly. Hot water hit his head and shoulders, soaking his hair and running down his back, across the impressive collection of scars.

He had been so careful to keep them hidden, had avoided getting injured in any way that would force him to take off his shirt in front of John, had even gone so far as to hide minor injuries sustained while taking down suspects for the same reason.

And now a moment of distraction had been enough to expose his secret.

John had never been supposed to find out. Well, not like this, anyway. And admittedly the chances of him finding out in the one way Sherlock would not have minded quite so much where below zero anyway.

 _'It doesn't matter'_ he told himself fiercely. John knew now and there was no going back. The only question was how much time he had left before John demanded an explanation. Sherlock had heard him suck in a breath just before the bathroom door had closed behind him and there was no question of how John felt about being kept in the dark about anything concerning Sherlock's health.

It should be flattering - and was, in a way - that even after everything that had happened, his wellbeing was still one of John's priorities. He tried to squish the feeling of warmth in his chest, caused by the knowledge that John cared about him.

_'It doesn't matter.'_

It shouldn't. If Sherlock had a say in it, no other human was ever going to see these scars. No doctors, no acquaintances. Certainly no lovers. There wouldn't be any. That chapter of his life was closed and he had no intention of reopening it - not with John's wedding less than a month away.

He shuddered despite the hot water and finally lifted his head. Might as well finish his shower before the water turned cold.

He washed his hair and body with quick, perfunctory movements, not allowing his hands to linger on any part for longer than necessary. He turned off the water, stepped out of the shower and made sure not to look at himself in the mirror as he toweled himself dry. There was nothing worth seeing.

Bending to pick up his discarded clothes minus the shirt, he realised he had also forgotten to take any fresh clothes with him. Wonderful.

One argument with John and this is what he turned into - a mindless imbecile incapable of performing even the easiest of tasks.

He blew out an angry breath, made sure the towel was tied securely around his waist, squared his shoulders, opened the door -

\- and almost collided with John.

"Oi!" John said, instinctively reaching out and stopping him with one hand pressed to his chest.

Sherlock froze instantly, his mind wiped clean of whatever it was he had been meaning to do.

"I realised you forgot your clothes." John gave him a small, worried smile. Sherlock allowed his gaze to drop and found that John was indeed offering a pile of fresh clothes balanced on his right forearm.

At about the same time, John realised he still had his hand pressed to Sherlock's chest and snatched it away with a muttered apology.

"Sorry. I was just ... I figured you might want these."

He shoved the clothes at Sherlock, who accepted them reflexively, dropping his discarded clothes in the process.

Neither of them cared.

Sherlock swallowed once, twice, forcing his throat to work. "Thank you."

He was in the process of shutting the door again when John reached out and stopped it.

"I just ... Sherlock, are you all right?"

"Yes, of course."

"Your back ..."

He shrugged. "It's just transport, John. I'm fine."

He shut the door before John could say anything else, or get the idea that he should take a closer look. Before he realised that Sherlock was lying.

*****

John stood staring at the closed bathroom door and wished he knew what to do next. Every cell in his body wanted to walk in there, make Sherlock sit down and examine his back to take in the full extent of his injuries. To run his hands over every single scar and make sure they were healing all right.

He shuddered. The last time he had seen Sherlock's back had been during the Irene Adler case when they had been brought to Buckingham Palace and Sherlock had shown up dressed in a sheet. All that skin had been absolutely unblemished back then. It wasn't difficult to guess where Sherlock had gained such an impressive, horrible collection of scars.

 _'I never asked him about his time away'_ John thought, feeling nauseated. _'I never even bothered to check if he was okay.'_

Some of those scars had looked comparatively fresh, as if they had only been healed for a couple of months. As if they had still been open wounds around the time Sherlock had come back.

 _'And I shoved him down onto the floor'_ John recalled, wondering if he looked as sick as he felt.

That had been six months ago, and Sherlock hadn't said a word about it.

That was the only reason John was currently stopping himself from going after him. That, and the look in Sherlock's eyes. Clearly his friend had been dreading this moment, had probably hoped John would never find out, and just as clearly he didn't wish to talk about it.

John could respect that. He didn't particularly like talking about his own scars, either. But at least he had had his therapist. The chances of Sherlock talking about this to anyone were below zero.

 _'It's just transport'_ Sherlock had said, just as John had feared. As if that made it any better. As if that would stop John from wishing he could kill whoever had done this to his best friend. He hoped to god they were dead. Perhaps when they got back to London he would call Mycroft and ask him if they were.

"Are you going to continue brooding out there all day?" Sherlock called through the door.

John blinked. "How did you-?"

Sherlock, now fully dressed, opened the door and brushed past him. "Oh please. As if that wasn't obvious."

John turned to stare at him, surprised to find Sherlock putting on his shoes. "Where are you going?"

"To talk to the chef," Sherlock reminded him. "I was going to inquire about the murder, remember? And once lunch is over, we have a meeting with the other guests for drinks."

"Yes, I heard you arrange that. I was standing right next to you," John pointed out. "I assume you don't want me to come with you to interrogate the chef?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He or she might get suspicious."

He was out of the door before John had a chance to question him further or follow him out.

"Great," John sighed. "Well, I guess he really doesn't want to talk about it. Fine."

He knew he could follow Sherlock - it didn't need a consulting detective to find the kitchen, after all - but Sherlock clearly wanted to get some distance between them, probably in the hopes that John would forget all about it and not mention the topic again.

Sighing, he flopped down on the bed.

A moment later, his eyes flew open.

_'Just how exactly is he going to charm the chef?!'_

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_.kcab emoc dah kcolrehS emit eht dnuora sdnuow nepo neeb llits dah yeht fi sA .shtnom fo elpuoc a rof delaeh neeb ylno dah yeht fi sa ,hserf ylevitarapmoc dekool dah sracs esoht fo emoS_

_.tlef eh sa kcis sa dekool eh fi gnirednow ,dellacer nhoJ 'roolf eht otno nwod mih devohs I dnA'_

_.ti tuoba drow a dias t'ndah kcolrehS dna ,oga shtnom xis neeb dah tahT_

_.ti tuoba klat ot hsiw t'ndid eh ylraelc sa tsuj dna ,tuo dnif reven dluow nhoJ depoh ylbaborp dah ,tnemom siht gnidaerd neeb dah dneirf sih ylraelC .seye s'kcolrehS ni kool eht dna ,tahT .mih retfa gniog morf flesmih gnippots yltnerruc saw nhoJ nosaer ylno eht saw tahT_

_.orez woleb erew enoyna ot siht tuoba gniklat kcolrehS fo secnahc ehT .tsipareht sih dah dah eh tsael ta tuB .rehtie ,sracs nwo sih tuoba gniklat ekil ylralucitrap t'ndid eH .taht tcepser dluoc nhoJ_

**> >PAUSE<<**

But what if John had confronted Sherlock about his scars and made him talk about his time away?

**> >PLAY<<**

Some of those scars had looked comparatively fresh, as if they had only been healed for a couple of months. As if they had still been open wounds around the time Sherlock had come back.

 _'And I shoved him down onto the floor'_ John recalled, wondering if he looked as sick as he felt.

That had been six months ago, and Sherlock hadn't said a word about it.

 _'Probably because I didn't ask'_ John thought. _'I gave him every reason to think I didn't give a shit. I never thought about it long enough to care.'_

He was already knocking on the bathroom door before consciously deciding to do so. It was time for them to sit and talk about this. About Sherlock's time away, about how John hadn't dealt with it, and every other thing they never spoke about.

"Sherlock?"

Several long seconds ticked by without a reaction. John sighed and knocked again. "Sherlock!"

Finally, the door was unlocked and opened. Sherlock, his shirt half-buttoned, scowled at him. "What?"

"Can we talk about this?"

"Talk about what, John? It's just transport. I didn't think you'd care."

John flinched but managed to hold Sherlock's gaze. "I deserved that one."

Oddly, the admission made Sherlock falter a little. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"You had every right to," John argued. "Come, sit down with me. Let's talk about this like adults for a change."

Sherlock frowned but followed him over to the comfortable armchairs and sat down, his face carefully expressionless as he looked anywhere but at John.

"I should have asked," John said, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped. "I was so furious when you came back and I felt so betrayed, but that's no excuse for treating you the way I did. I should have asked what had happened to you while you were gone. And I definitely should have noticed you were injured."

"I made quite sure you wouldn't," Sherlock said quietly, staring at the floor. "None of this is your fault, John."

"Bullshit. The only reason you even left was to save me and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson."

"And I would do it all over again if it came down to that," Sherlock told him. "It was my choice and so I bear the consequences."

John closed his eyes for a moment. "It shouldn't be like that. Your back looks like ..." He broke off, unable to even put it into words.

"Like someone played tic-tac-toe on it with knives?" Sherlock asked. "That's because they did."

"That's not all they did, though, is it?"

Sherlock hunched his shoulders. "I really don't wish to talk about this, John."

For a moment, there was nothing in his head and then came the horror. "Oh, god."

Something in his tone must have tipped Sherlock off. His head snapped up and he glanced at John, his own eyes widening. "Oh, god, no, not that. They never ... no. I suppose some people would say I was lucky but ... well, it's hard to feel lucky when you're being beaten into unconsciousness."

If it hadn't been for his time in the army, John would have thrown up right then and there. Still, it was a struggle to hold on to the contents of his stomach.

Mixed in with the horror was something else, though. Something fierce and furious, a bright, burning, roaring monster of a thing.

"Are they dead? The people who did this ... are they dead?"

Sherlock looked surprisingly satisfied at the question. "Oh yes. I killed four of them myself and Mycroft and his people took care of the others. We burned the entire place to the ground when we left."

"Good," John said, nodding emphatically. "That's good."

Sherlock reached out and put a hand on John's own, clenched to fists. "You can't kill everyone who does me harm, John."

"Says the man who spent two years hunting down people on the off-chance they might try to kill me," John retorted.

Sherlock smiled a crooked smile. "I would do it all over again, John. If it kept you alive... if it kept you safe... I would endure it all over again and worse."

"Sherlock..." God, the very idea.

"It was worth it," Sherlock said firmly. "I admit the outcome is not quite what I had imagined, but it was still worth it."

"What outcome?" John asked, confused.

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a sad little smile. "Let's just say my return did not go quite as I had hoped."

"Oh? Did you think I wouldn't be angry?"

"I hadn't expected you to grieve," Sherlock said. "I managed to simultaneously over- and underestimate your regard for me." He shrugged. "Judging sentiment has never been a strength of mine. You can't imagine what it was like to come back after two years of ... of this," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate his scars, "only to be met with your fury."

He lowered his gaze. "The entire time I was away, all I wanted to do was come home to you. Everything I did and endured was for the sake of getting our life back to the way it was before Moriarty showed up. And when I finally came home, you were gone."

There was something raw in his voice, a kind of anguish John had never heard from his friend before.

"I'd do it all over again anyway," Sherlock repeated. "I'd let them kill me if it meant you getting the life you want."

"That's not ... don't say that," John pleaded. "I can't... god, Sherlock, if anything happened to you ... if I lost you again..." The words died in his throat and he shook his head. "Promise me. Promise you will do the best you possibly can to stay alive and safe."

Sherlock looked at him then and the raw anguish was in his eyes as well. "I promise."

It was easier than John had expected but he wasn't going to argue with Sherlock doing what he had asked him to. Instead, his mind snagged onto something else. "Can I see them?"

"What?"

"Your scars. Can I ... see them? I just ... I want to make sure ..." He trailed off, unsure how to even finish that sentence.

Sherlock hesitated for barely a second before he stood and unbuttoned his shirt. He turned around and shrugged out of it, exposing the patchwork of scars that criss-crossed on his back.

It did look a bit as if a drunk had used a knife to draw a hopscotch course over various tic-tac-toe matches, but these scars faded in comparison to the vicious lines that streaked diagonally from his shoulder to his hip, still an angry red after six months.

John stood and put a careful hand on his shoulder, making him turn his back towards the window so he could better examine it in natural light. He barely managed not to snatch his hand back when Sherlock flinched at the touch.

In the stark light of day, the scars looked even worse. They also looked wrong - such darkness should have no place in the light of the sun.

And Sherlock had said people thought he should consider himself _lucky_. It made John want to punch someone.

He reached out carefully and traced one of the long scars with his index finger. Sherlock shivered.

"That wasn't a knife," John murmured.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "No ... that was a whip."

Swallowing back bile, John pressed his palm to Sherlock's back, slowly following the lines of the angry scars.

"They smaller ones are healing well," he murmured. "And I'm sure the others will fade in time."

"It doesn't matter much," Sherlock said quietly. John noticed he was leaning into his touch ever so slightly. "I do not intend for anyone else to ever see them."

"That's not the only trouble with scars, though," John pointed out. "No one seeing those could think of you as anything but brave. But if the scars don't heal well, you might experience movement restrictions due to the skin tightness. Have you been putting anything on them?"

"There's some sort of ointment Mycroft's people gave me," Sherlock told him, rolling his shoulders. "But I haven't had any movement issues since it stopped hurting." He hesitated. "And it's difficult for me to reach them."

John found himself with both hands on Sherlock's back, carefully inspecting the scars and looking for any signs of delayed infections. "I assume Mycroft had someone patch you up?"

"Naturally. I would have preferred you to do it but I didn't really want you to see me like this and Mycroft pointed out - quite rightly - that getting you to meet me in that state might not be the best way to tell you I was alive."

John snorted. "Hm, no, it really wouldn't have. Might have stopped me from being quite so furious, though."

"It would have interrupted your proposal and got blood all over your suit," Sherlock pointed out.

"And you dressing up as a French waiter didn't?"

"I did not actually intend to do that. I saw you sitting there and I sort of panicked."

There was a new tension in his back when he continued. "When I realised you were about to propose to Mary, I almost turned around and left without ever speaking to you."

John swallowed and felt his heart rate pick up. "Why?"

Sherlock turned his head and glanced at him over his shoulder. The anguish was back in his gaze. "I was in a considerable amount of pain, I had open wounds on my back, and all I wanted was to see you. But when I did, I thought I'd rather be dead for real than to lose you to her."

Breathing was becoming a bit difficult but John had to ask: "What made you change your mind?"

Sherlock smiled sadly. "I thought if this was my punishment for leaving for two years, I deserved it. And I'd rather see you be happy with her than not see you at all. I figured that so long as I had you in my life, there was a chance, however small. I was wrong, of course, but it hardly matters now."

John, unable to stop himself, leaned forward and pressed his face to the space between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "You weren't wrong. And it does matter," he murmured, sliding his hands around his friend's body until he could link them in front of his chest. "It matters more than you will ever know. If I didn't know you were alive ..."

He shook his head. "I would have walked right into this marriage and spent the rest of my life wondering what if."

He pressed his mouth to Sherlock's spine and felt him shudder. "I would have never known."

Sherlock shook in his embrace. "John..."

"Please don't let me make the biggest mistake of my life out of some misguided attempt to let me have the life you think I want when we both know better."

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_They could have done this. They could have talked and they could have been honest and vulnerable and they could have allowed themselves this moment. But they didn't. And so..._

**> >PLAY<<**

That was the only reason John was currently stopping himself from going after him. That, and the look in Sherlock's eyes. Clearly his friend had been dreading this moment, had probably hoped John would never find out, and just as clearly he didn't wish to talk about it.

John could respect that. He didn't particularly like talking about his own scars, either. But at least he had had his therapist. The chances of Sherlock talking about this to anyone were below zero.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock was on his second muffin and halfway through a cup of tea when John burst into the kitchen.

"Ah, Shon, 'ow 'ood o' 'ou 'o 'oin uff," Sherlock greeted him.

"What?"

"Don't talk with your mouth full, young man," the cook scolded.

Sherlock swallowed. "My apologies. How good of you to join us, John. Come, sit down. Mrs Hendriksen was just about to tell me all about Frederik. You know," he added innocently, "the bloke who got killed here."

"Mrs Hendriksen?" John repeated.

The older woman smiled at him. "That's me. I suppose you've already met my husband. He works at the reception and does the general maintenance around the place." And to Sherlock she said: "I suppose this is your young man, then?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed calmly. "Do sit down, John."

 _'His young man? What the hell has he been telling her?!'_ John's gaze went back and forth between the cook and Sherlock, trying to figure out what had happened before his arrival.

Sherlock was leaning back in a chair at the massive kitchen table, a cup of tea and plate of muffins in front of him, and looking utterly relaxed as he watched Mrs Hendriksen bustle around the kitchen.

She was a tall woman who looked like the tough kind of person you frequently encountered out in the countryside; the kind of person raised on fresh air and with a body fully capable of - and used to - splitting firewood at five in the morning on a snowy day. Something in the way she carried herself also suggested that she was blessed with the solid sort of character you could bend iron on.

"I see," John said, not seeing at all. He sat down on the chair next to Sherlock's.

Sherlock pushed the plate of muffins in his direction. "Now, Mrs Hendriksen, you were going to tell me about Frederik."

"Oh yes, the poor boy." She slapped a large lump of dough on a flour-covered part of the table. "Hope you don't mind me working while I talk. The bread doesn't bake itself."

"If it's anything like your muffins, the bakeries in this area must be out of business," Sherlock said smoothly. John almost choked on his muffin. Even after all these years, witnessing Sherlock turning on the charm was still something of an experience.

"That silver tongue of yours is going to get you in trouble one day," Mrs Hendriksen said, sounding not the least put out. She pointed a floury finger at John. "You make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"That's basically my day job," John assured her, grinning.

"Good man. Cuppa tea? I'll make you one as soon as I'm done with the dough."

John accepted gratefully. Drinking tea while he got to watch Sherlock at work sounded like a great way to get his mind off of what had happened earlier.

"Frederik," Sherlock prompted again.

"Patience, deary," Mrs Hendriksen laughed. "My, you are curious as a bag of cats. Well, Freddie was a sweet, dear boy. He worked as a hall porter, though what this hotel needs a hall porter for I can't imagine. He apprenticed with my husband in doing maintenance work. Changing light bulbs, fixing leaking sinks, that kind of thing. He's been going out with one of the girls from the village, Natalie. She went off to South Africa to work as a babysitter for some rich folks for a couple of months. From what I know, he was going to propose when she came back. Head over heels, the poor boy."

She shook her head sadly. "From what I saw of them together, they had a rather unequal relationship. He worshiped the ground she walked on, but I don't think she felt nearly as strongly. It's a bloody shame. No good basis for a marriage, that is, if the people involved aren't equal fools for love."

Sherlock nodded and took a sip of tea. "Indeed."

John bit back a snort. As if Sherlock knew the first thing about love and marriage beyond how to organise a wedding.

Sherlock glared at him, apparently having noticed his doubtful expression.

Luckily, Mrs Hendriksen hadn't, being too focused on her dough, and she continued talking. "Anyway, the boy was going to propose once she came back. He even had the ring picked out and bought already, and a pair of earrings to match. I must say I was a bit surprised about that - they looked a wee bit out of his pay range, but then he may have been saving up. After a couple of years working here and little expenses, he might have been able to afford them. Who knows? It's all for nothing now, God rest his poor soul."

She sniffed a bit and slapped the dough down especially energetically, as if imagining the killer's head in its place.

"My husband will be able to tell you more about what kind of a worker he was, but he was a nice young man, very kind. He had his flights of fancy, as young people do, but no more than others."

"What flights of fancy would that be?" Sherlock asked. "Winning the lottery?"

"No, he never played, not that I know of. Too much chance involved, or so he said. He thought luck was going to find him if he was meant to have any." She shook her head, clearly not one to believe in that kind of thing. "I always told him luck is something you make for yourself, but he wouldn't listen."

"Perhaps he did," John suggested. "He had a girlfriend and somehow got the money to buy an engagement ring. Sounds like he made his luck all right."

She nodded. "Good point."

"Seems to me the only luck that found him was the bad kind," Sherlock commented.

Mrs Hendriksen sniffed. "The poor lad. I really don't understand why he had to die. Stealing food isn't the kind of crime that gets punished so viciously it would be worth committing a murder to cover it up, is it?"

"Perhaps he just surprised the thief, they got into a fight and he was killed by accident?" John suggested, even though he had read the report and knew that it was unlikely the young man had been stabbed with a huge kitchen knife by accident. Once, perhaps, but not seven times.

The cook, however, seemed to take some little comfort from the suggestion. "I could believe that more easily than that someone just killed poor Freddie in cold blood."

She sniffed again and John handed her a tissue, giving her his most reassuring smile at the same time.

"Thank you. John, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

She wiped her eyes and blew her nose noisily. "William said you're the go-to-guy in times of emotional upheaval."

"Will-?" John began, before remembering Sherlock's name. "Oh. Did he indeed?" He grinned at Sherlock, who was suddenly very busy swirling the dregs of his tea around the bottom of his cup.

John decided to pay him back in kind. "Well, he may be right about that, but if you want the great romantic gestures, Will here is the person to turn to."

Sherlock looked like he had a terrible tooth ache. John grinned at him and even reached out to pat his arm. "He doesn't like to admit it, though."

"Oh, the two of you are adorable, just adorable!" Mrs Hendriksen exclaimed. "There's an equal relationship if I've ever seen one. You're going to be very happy together, I can tell."

Apparently, this was the point where Sherlock decided he wasn't going to get any further information out of the cook, because he jumped up and dragged John up by his sleeve. "Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs Hendriksen. We better leave now, we promised the other guests to meet up with them after lunch. Good day to you!"

John barely managed to call out a hasty goodbye before Sherlock dragged him out of the kitchen.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_.nehctik eht fo tuo mih deggard kcolrehS erofeb eybdoog ytsah a tuo llac ot deganam ylerab nhoJ_

_"!uoy ot yad dooG .hcnul retfa meht htiw pu teem ot stseug rehto eht desimorp ew ,won evael retteb eW .neskirdneH srM ,aet eht rof hcum yrev uoy knahT" .eveels sih yb pu nhoJ deggard dna pu depmuj eh esuaceb ,kooc eht fo tuo noitamrofni rehtruf yna teg ot gniog t'nsaw eh dediced kcolrehS erehw tniop eht saw siht ,yltnerappA_

_".llet nac I ,rehtegot yppah yrev eb ot gniog er'uoY .eno nees reve ev'I fi pihsnoitaler lauqe na s'erehT" .demialcxe neskirdneH srM "!elbaroda tsuj ,elbaroda era uoy fo owt eht ,hO"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if the cook had held John back?_

**> >PLAY<<**

"May I have a word, John?"

John paused halfway to the door Sherlock had already disappeared through. "Uh... sure."

"Close the door, dear."

He did and returned to the kitchen table.

"What's this about, then?"

The look Mrs Hendriksen gave him could have hammered nails into walls. "You're being a right idiot, son."

"Excuse me?"

She gestured to the door. "I know you two are shamming at being in a relationship but you're making a right meal out of it. I've never seen anyone as besotted as he is."

John blinked at her. "You just said it yourself, though I wouldn't quite put it that way. We're letting people draw their conclusions and not correcting them. He's just trying to help them toward the wrong conclusion."

"When no one is looking?" she asked. "Do stop and think about this for a bit, will you? That poor man has it bad for you and no matter what is going on in your lives away from here, it's not fair to string him along."

John gaped at her, dumbstruck. He wasn't leading anyone anywhere. And Sherlock didn't ... they weren't ... he wasn't ...

The old cook smiled at him. "Just keep that in mind, will you? It's so rare to find someone who truly loves you these days."

The door was pushed open and Sherlock stuck his head back in, his gaze landing on John immediately. "Why are you still here?"

"Oh, I was just asking him if he liked breakfast," Mrs Hendriksen said, making a shooing motion. "Get going, the two of you, and thank you for your compliments, John."

Bewildered, John got up and followed Sherlock out, only half aware of where they were going. Most of his attention was on Sherlock and on Mrs Hendriksen's words. Surely she couldn't be right, could she?

He watched Sherlock walk ahead of him, looking like he always did, trying to determine if there was anything about his friend that suggested ... but no, that was stupid. John shook his head, feeling a bit like an idiot. Of course there would be no bright neon sign suddenly visible over Sherlock's head, proclaiming to all the world that he had any interest in John. It was silly to think so. It was silly to think there was any interest there.

Except ... well, Sherlock _had_ been behaving oddly, hadn't he? Outing himself to John, barely scraping past a nervous breakdown after picking a fight with John out of the blue about him being ashamed if people thought he was gay. In fact, Sherlock had been having odd mood swings ever since his return, being in turns almost worryingly elated and unsettlingly distant and quiet.

He was either staring at John and talking to him all the time or hardly willing to look at him.

John thought about that for a bit. Then he thought about it for a bit longer. And then he had no more time to think because they were walking past the reception and towards lunch and he could feel the opportunity slip through his fingers once more. Not this time, though. This time he would wait it out, would wait for a moment alone with Sherlock and try to get to the bottom of this.

Or perhaps he would make a moment, he thought as his gaze landed on an innocuous door.

"Sh- William, hang on a second," he called, narrowly avoiding revealing Sherlock's real name to anyone within listening distance.

Sherlock returned to him. "Everything all right?"

John pulled open the door that had caught his eye. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him through, closing the door behind them and fumbling for the light switch.

They couldn't go far - broom closets only offered a limited amount of space. John almost had to stand on Sherlock's feet to fit into the narrow space with him.

"John, what-" Sherlock began. The single bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling was swinging wildly back and forth, making the light dance in a nauseating circle. Judging by its height, Sherlock had hit it with his head.

"She knows."

"Knows what?" Sherlock asked.

"That we're shamming," John said. "Mrs Hendriksen somehow knows."

He kept a careful eye on Sherlock's face, ready to catch any change in expression that might tell him if the cook was right about him.

Sherlock looked mildly interested. "Does she indeed? Interesting. I suppose there had to be at least one even mildly perceptive person working here, otherwise the place would have gone under ages ago. Did she say what made her come to that conclusion?"

John debated with himself for barely a second before replying. "She said you look utterly besotted."

Sherlock blinked. "That is rather the point of us allowing people to think we are in a relationship, is it not?"

"That's what I told her, too," John agreed. "Except she said you do it when no one is around to see it."

That got a visible reaction. Sherlock did the rapid double blink he did when he was caught by surprise or filing away unexpected data and John thought he could see something like trepidation in his gaze.

"Is that so?"

"I wouldn't know," John said, crossing his arms and sticking his chin out. "Seeing as apparently you only do it when I'm not looking, either."

There was a list of possible replies Sherlock could have made to deflect. Instead, John watched his eyes flick to the door.

His heart sped up. If Sherlock was too busy contemplating escape routes to respond to his accusation, there must be something to it. A sliver of something that felt like hope fluttered in his chest.

Finally, Sherlock's mouth seemed to catch up with his brain.

"Don't be ridiculous, John." His eyes flicked to the door again. "That cook hasn't even seen the two of us together more than once."

"Apparently she didn't need to," John retorted. "I notice you're not denying it."

Sherlock opened his mouth, clearly ready to renounce sentiment, but no words were forthcoming.

John waited.

They stared at each other. Slowly, Sherlock's expression of mild affront faded and turned into something sad and defeated.

It hurt to watch and John closed his eyes, wishing it would give him a moment of reprive.

Sherlock shifted, reminding him how close they were. "We should go to lunch," he said, voice oddly rough.

John opened his eyes again. Sherlock had already turned away and was reaching for the door knob, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

The sight was unbearable.

Before he knew what he was doing, John had reached out and caught hold of Sherlock's elbow, pulling him back. Sherlock hit his head on the light bulb again, sending the circle of light spinning wildly.

John only caught a glance at the half-surprised, half-apprehensive expression on his friend's face before he rose on his tiptoes and closed the gap between them.

The first brush of his lips over Sherlock's was soft, hesitant. He pulled back to draw in a breath and moved in again, a gentle, warm kiss.

Sherlock took a surprised breath, a warm puff of air on John's cheek as he exhaled. A tentative hand grasped John's hip and the other wrapped around his elbow.

John moaned a little and shuffled closer, mimicking the placement of Sherlock's hands on his body.

Being this close, hidden in the dimly and rather shakily lit broom closet, was intoxicating.

Sherlock made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper. It flicked a switch in John's mind. All thoughts of caution and going slow flew right out of the window. He groaned, swiping his tongue past Sherlock's already parted lips.

He had exactly two seconds to enjoy the heat and taste of Sherlock's mouth before Sherlock apparently finally allowed himself to believe this was happening. As a result, John found himself suddenly shoved backwards half a step until his back hit the shelves behind him. Somehow, Sherlock's hand found the back of his head before it could smack against the shelf. Their mouths didn't get separated for even a second.

It was like being hit by a tsunami of pent-up desire. John hardly knew what was happening. One moment, things had been soft and cautious and now Sherlock was kissing him with a heretofore unexpected level of desperation.

Sherlock moved to cup his face in his hands, angling his head a little to kiss him even more fiercely.

John moaned and clung to him, holding on to Sherlock's hips with both hands now and pulling him as close as he possibly could.

They both groaned as he unceremoniously pulled their hips together. Sherlock drew away and dropped his head to pant against John's neck. "Fuck, _John_."

"Yes," he gasped. "God, yes."

Sherlock whined and kissed him again. "Please."

John didn't know what precisely he was asking but he could make an educated guess. "Anything. Anything you want."

"You," Sherlock moaned into his ear. "I just ... want you."

The way he said it made it clear that he wasn't just talking about sex and John felt his throat close up. "You have me," he promised. "And I've got you."

Sherlock pulled away a little so they could look into each others eyes. Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, lips red and swollen - he looked gorgeous. John couldn't help staring at him, breathless with the sudden need to not let this man go.

"I'm keeping you," he said seriously.

Sherlock blinked at him.

"I'm keeping you," John said again. "Just you."

"John..."

He shook his head. "Funny I had to walk into a closet to come to this conclusion but it is still true. I'll keep you if you'll have me."

In lieu of replying, Sherlock kissed him again. John supposed that was answer enough.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_Sometimes, a situation is much clearer to an outsider than the people involved. Unfortunately, it wasn't the case this time. And so..._

**> >PLAY<<**

"Thank you very much for the tea, Mrs Hendriksen. We better leave now, we promised the other guests to meet up with them after lunch. Good day to you!"

John barely managed to call out a hasty goodbye before Sherlock dragged him out of the kitchen.

*****

"Learn anything new from her?" John asked as they walked down the hallway towards the reception desk.

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't know yet. There were some interesting details but I'm not sure how they fit the picture. I'll have to replay the conversation in my head and see if I anything sticks out that didn't appear significant just now."

John nodded, blithely accepting his painfully vague answer. Sometimes Sherlock wasn't sure if John really was that oblivious or if he simply chose to let Sherlock get away with it, like indulging a small child in his imaginary games.

Well, he thought sardonically, he hadn't lied, precisely. He had merely avoided a certain truth - namely that the only thing that had stood out to him was John himself and the timer counting down their remaining days and hours together. After dinner tonight, he'd go into his mind palace and replay the conversation with Mrs Hendriksen to see if there was anything in there that could help him solve the case. Until then, they had lunch and small talk with the other guests to look forward to.

He shuddered.

"Cold?" John asked, apparently having picked up on it.

Sherlock shook his head. "We've got a big meet and greet with the other guests waiting to happen," he reminded him.

John grinned. "You'll survive. Look how you just charmed poor Mrs Hendriksen into telling you anything you wanted to know." He paused thoughtfully. "You know, she did remind me a bit of Mrs Hudson, character-wise. What is it with you and older women wanting to force-feed and mother you?"

"I haven't the faintest," Sherlock told him truthfully. "But that doesn't mean I won't take advantage of it when the opportunity arises."

"An opportunist until the very end."

_ 'If I was, I would make good use of the week I have with you. Instead, I'm not even brave enough to open my mouth and tell you to reconsider - to tell you why you _ should  _ reconsider.' _

Sherlock didn't say a word for the rest of the walk to the dining hall, biting his lip to keep the traitorous words from spilling out. John didn't comment on his silence, perhaps thinking he was already in his mind palace and walking on autopilot. It wouldn't be the first time John was wrong about what Sherlock thought.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Lunch went precisely the way John had expected it to. Sherlock grudgingly ate one scone and the look he gave Harold was enough to discourage the waiter from even attempting to speak to him beyond taking his order of a glass of water. John gave him an apologetic shrug before concentrating on his own meal.

"So," he said between bites, "what's the battle plan for this dreaded after-lunch conversation?"

Sherlock blinked owlishly at him and it took a moment or two before something like awareness returned to his gaze. "Pardon?"

John sighed and leaned a little further across the table to avoid being overheard. "What do you want to ask the other guests? Do you have a plan or do we go in and improvise?"

"Oh," another blink and Sherlock returned back to the real world from wherever he had gone in his mind. "I was hoping to observe their interactions and just let them tell us whatever they want. We can question them by playing the concerned guests and making some suggestions of our own."

John nodded. "Okay then. Is there anything in particular you want me to pay attention to?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You're better at personal interactions and reading emotional cues, so I suppose this will work best if you do most of the talking and I just help steer the conversation in the right direction. I'll be listening for any interesting information and deducing the individuals in depth and you can keep an eye on the interpersonal relationships in the room. Does that sound all right?"

"Sounds like a plan," John agreed, taking a sip from his glass of water.

They sat in silence for some minutes, John eating and Sherlock fiddling with a napkin. The open sign of nerves made John frown a little; Sherlock didn't fiddle with things unless he was extremely agitated. Surely the thought of making small talk with a bunch of strangers couldn't be that daunting?

Perhaps it was the fact that he would be confronted with all of them at once?

Without thinking, John reached out and placed one hand on Sherlock's, forcing his fingers to still. "Relax," he said, smiling gently. "I'll be there, too, remember? It's going to be absolutely fine."

Sherlock sighed but his hand relaxed beneath John's palm. He could feel his friend's pulse fluttering where his index finger brushed Sherlock's wrist.

"I know. Still, I do not like the variables. There are too many people, too many different possible outcomes." Sherlock frowned and when he looked at John his gaze was intense. "I need you to play your part in a believable way. Do you think you can do that?"

"I'll live," John said, rolling his eyes. He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "And considering that people already think I'm utterly devoted to you when I don't even do anything, I highly doubt I'll have much difficulty enforcing that idea."

Sherlock nodded, apparently satisfied. "Very well then."

John pushed his empty plate away and looked around. "Well, it seems everyone else has already gone ahead, so we'd best follow their example. Where are we supposed to meet? The bar in the common room?"

"Yes." Sherlock reluctantly stood and they left the dining hall and crossed the foyer into the cosy common room where guests could sit and talk and order a drink or two at the bar.

Most of the other guests were already gathered there, including the young newly-weds they had already encountered that morning.

*****

Everyone looked up when Sherlock and John entered and the Channings waved them over with wide, welcoming smiles on their faces.

"Glad you could make it," Arthur greeted them. "Eliza and I were so full after lunch, we debated just staying in the dining room until someone would come to carry us to our rooms."

John laughed. "It was rather filling, wasn't it? We tried to go slow and this one-" he jerked his thumb at Sherlock "-doesn't eat much unless you put a gun to his head, so we avoided the need for a wheelbarrow."

That drew a round of chuckles from the others and Sherlock was surprised to find that most of the other guests had joined them by the window - apparently everyone was at least slightly curious about him and John as the 'newcomers'.

"You do look like you could do with another meal," Patricia commented, her gaze roving up and down Sherlock's body. "You look awfully thin."

"I've got more important things to do than eat," Sherlock replied rather curtly.

"Or than to make small talk," John added in an exasperated tone that Sherlock suspected wasn't faked at all. "I apologise, the lack of an internet connection makes him a bit short-tempered."

It was a suitable excuse and Sherlock managed to arrange his features into a half contrite, half annoyed expression. "Yes, well, you would think that these days they would manage to at least get a phone reception up here," he said. "It's not like we're in a developing country. In fact, you can get better phone reception in most of rural India."

"You've been to India?" Eliza asked interestedly. "I've always wanted to go there. Did you get to see much of the country?"

Next to Sherlock, John had gone still and Sherlock realised rather belatedly that this was news to him as well.

"I was traveling on business," he said shortly. "The heat was quite disagreeable but I never struggled with getting a connection. It was quite the opposite to this place in every way."

"And what did you do with yourself while he was traveling, John?" Arthur asked curiously.

This time it was Sherlock's turn to go still. They never spoke about his time away or how John had or hadn't coped with it.

However, John seemed to unearth hitherto unknown acting skills, putting on a self-deprecating little smile and shrugging. "Oh, you know, moped about the place, drank myself into oblivion, tried to drown myself in work ... the usual."

They all laughed, clearly not taking his comment seriously, and Sherlock had to struggle to plaster a smirk onto his face instead of flinching.

Instead, he locked eyes with John before speaking. "I would have taken you with me if given the option."

John's eyes widened a little and he nodded.

"Luckily, I came back in due time," Sherlock continued. "And at present I have no intentions of going anywhere in a hurry."

There, that should satisfy them. The only one with plans to walk away was John but there was no need to mention that.

They moved on to other topics then, with Arthur and Eliza talking about their first holiday as a couple.

"It was a camping trip and it was an absolute disaster - as if the entire universe had conspired against us. But we got through it without any major fights and I knew right then that she was the one," Arthur said, smiling at his wife. "You don't just let a woman prepared to fight a bunch of raccoons with a paddle in defense of our sandwiches go without a fight."

This prompted the others to share their holiday memories before the conversation turned back to the present.

"So, have you been able to find out anything else about the murder?" Patricia asked in her usual forthright manner. "I've tried to get some more information out of our waiter but he wouldn't say a peep on the subject."

"Well, we haven't really had time to ask anyone about it," Sherlock said. "I was hoping you would be able to tell us more about it, actually."

Weronikia Walczak, who had joined their group along with her husband some minutes ago, leaned forward with a conspiratory whisper. "I heard the boy was killed by someone in a fight over money. A young man of his age and with his job, how could he have gotten the money for an expensive watch and an engagement ring? There's something fishy there."

"This is the Scottish Highlands," Patricia pointed out. "Hardly a prime hub for crime, is it? What would you even do here to get at big money? Steal someone's cows?"

"That depends on the number of cows, actually," Eliza said. "The average price for a two year old bull is around 3,000 guineas but you can get up to 10,000 if it's a good breeding line."

Everyone stared at her in surprise. She grinned. "My family used to deal in livestock."

"Guineas?" John asked.

"Livestock prices are still quoted in guineas," she explained. "But you pay the equal value in British pounds. There's actually a 5% difference in value but that is considered the commissioner's fee, so it all evens out."

Sherlock filed this information away in case it might become relevant at some point in the future. If he did end up retiring somewhere in the country, it would probably come in useful to have at least some knowledge of these things.

Henryk Walczak, who had been quietly standing beside his wife, nudged Sherlock's side. "You look like you would like to pull out a notebook and write this down."

"Don't have to," Sherlock said, shrugging. "I assure you, my memory is good enough to remember this without bothering with notes."

"That's what I always tell myself, too," Patricia said, sighing. "And then two days later I hate myself because I can't remember what the hell it was."

"Not William," John said, startling Sherlock once again by using his real first name as if he always had. "His mind is a steel trap."

"Does it catch mice, too?" Arthur quipped.

"I don't believe I've ever applied myself to that particular pastime," Sherlock replied. "Perhaps I should give it a try."

"Hmm, you catch other things instead," John said with just the right tone of voice to make everyone get the innuendo.

Sherlock, surprised by what could easily be considered a flirtatious comment aimed at him, allowed a slow smile to spread over his face. "I don't hear you complaining."

"Gosh, the two of you," Patricia sighed. "I'd give a lot for that sort of connection with someone."

"I gave two years of my life for it," Sherlock heard himself say and blinked, startled by his own admission. "And I'd do it again without question."

"Awwwww," Elisa and Patricia gushed in unison.

Sherlock carefully avoided looking at John. "Yes, well. Either way, I fear we are getting off track. I wished to know more about what happened here so we could make an informed decision whether it is safe for us to stay. Perhaps we should talk to the management ourselves."

"I doubt they will be willing to share information," Arthur said, wrapping his arm around Eliza's waist. "The owner isn't even here. Off down in London or somewhere, I suppose. The police were here and interviewed us all but of course we didn't know the first thing about what had happened. It was quite a shock to come down in the morning and see a hearse pull away and police everywhere."

"Oh, it was terrible," Mrs Walczak added, shaking her head. "I hardly felt safe anymore but they reassured us it must have been a crime of opportunity and they would catch the killer in no time. The police said it was probably some vagabond roaming the countryside and stealing food where he can."

"I tought you said you believed it was an argument over money?" John asked.

She shrugged. "I'm just repeating what the police said. I didn't say I believed them."

"Fair enough," John allowed. "I'm sure they will return soon to give us an update on the case."

There was a snort behind them. "What, those guys? Couldn't find their own arse with both hands and a map. If you're hoping to find out what happened to the concierge by relying on them, you're in for a long wait."

They turned to see James Marquis, immaculately dressed as always and holding a glass of brandy. Sherlock eyed the bespoke shoes and tailored suit, did a quick calculation of the likely price range on display, and couldn't help but wonder what a man like that was doing in a remote hotel in Scotland. Clearly he was not here for a holiday. Equally clearly he was not here to amuse himself.

On the other side of the room, the twins were eyeing him with blatant interest and barely concealed hunger. Sherlock wondered if he should let them know that all their hopes and plans were for nothing but decided against it - best not to draw unnecessary attention to himself.

"And what do you propose we do, then?" Arthur asked tightly. "Investigate ourselves?"

Sherlock blinked and turned his attention fully back to what was happening within their circle.

"Now that would be something," Patricia breathed, her eyes shining with excitement. "Our very own murder mystery event!"

"Would you like everyone to put their name in a hat and draw lots to find out who the killer is?" John asked and Sherlock snorted.

James shrugged. "I doubt that would help matters much. A bunch of amateur detectives who've read too many Agatha Christie novels hardly seem equipped to solve an actual murder, don't you think?"

"It might be a fun way to pass the time," Patricia argued.

"Fun?," Eliza asked, sounding shocked. "A young man has been killed!"

Patricia flushed. "Yes, I know. Nothing much we can do about that, though, is there? Unless one of you is hiding a secret identity as a necromancer or some such."

That drew a round of chuckles and even Eliza smiled weakly. "No, you're right. I apologise."

"Not to worry, we're all a bit high strung right now," Patricia said graciously. "Every morning I wake up surprised I managed to sleep at all. I keep my door locked at night and still jump at every sound. Someone was roaming the halls last night and I just about went and hid under my blankets like a child."

Sherlock studiously avoided looking at John for fear of what his expression might betray if their gazes met.

"Oh, that might have been me," Patrick Wiltshire said, ambling over to join them. "I went out for a smoke last night. Didn't mean to scare anyone."

He gave an imperceptible nod to Sherlock. Seeing the way James was watching him, Sherlock couldn't help but think it wasn't coincidence that Patrick had managed to integrate himself into the group as far away from the other man as was possible within their small circle. He wondered if there was a history there or just general antipathy.

Patricia lightly smacked his arm. "Well you scared the wits out of me, mister."

"My humblest apologies," Patrick said, grasping her hand and gallantly bowing over it. "I assure you, scaring anyone was the farthest thing from my mind. Now, did I hear someone say something about a murder mystery? As a crime writer myself, that naturally piqued my interest."

"Oh, Patricia here was just contemplating investigating the murder ourselves," James explained, his gaze never leaving Patrick's face. "Since the local police force is about as adept as a fish on a bicycle."

"I can't really imagine you as a police inspector," Patrick told him thoughtfully. "A lawyer, on the other hand ..."

"But who'd be the judge in that scenario?" Eliza asked, apparently getting drawn into the idea despite herself.

"Perhaps William here would oblige us," her husband suggested, winking at Sherlock.

"You'd look great in a white wig," John chimed in, nudging Sherlock with his elbow. "I think I can see you in a court room."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Is that so? And who would you be in this scenario?"

"Why, I'm the record keeper, naturally," John said easily. "Running after you and taking notes is sort of what my full-time occupation is all about these days. It wouldn't be a difficult adjustment."

"Ah, but you are far more than that," Sherlock found himself saying. "I'm sure everyone here will agree that keeping a protocol is getting increasingly important in these times of so-called 'fake news'."

"God, I'd pay half a fortune to attend your wedding and hear the speeches," Arthur said, shaking his head. "They'd certainly be better than anything I was able to cobble together."

"Your speech was lovely," Eliza told him, leaning her head against his shoulder. "Your cousin's on the other hand..."

"Please, don't remind me." They shared a grimace but a moment later Arthur smiled again, turning back to John and Sherlock. "All I can say is: get yourself a best man who knows you well."

Sherlock felt himself tense and chanced a glance at John, who had plastered on his best polite smile. "Thank you. I think I know just the man for the job."

It took some effort but Sherlock managed a smile that didn't look like he had a tooth ache.

"And make sure to find a lovely spot for the honeymoon," Henryk Walczak added. "My wife and I had our wedding trip here. We fell in love with the country and have returned here every year since."

"It is a beautiful place," Eliza agreed, smiling at her own husband. "Did you hear that? I knew we were right to come here."

"Well, we seem to keep getting off track," Patricia observed. "If this is how easily distracted we get just talking about it, I don't really see much hope for our investigation." She heaved a put-upon sigh. "And I was so looking forward to being Miss Marple."

They laughed and moved on to other, more harmless topics. As soon as Sherlock felt it was safe to do so, he retreated into his mind palace, letting their words wash over him without bothering to listen as he retraced the conversation in his mind in search of any new information that might help him with their case.

After some undetermined length of time, he felt John's hand on his elbow, startling him back into reality in time to hear John make their excuses and to add his own goodbyes before allowing John to lead him from the room.

He had not been this glad to leave a room in quite some time.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_".ecnis raey yreve ereh denruter evah dna yrtnuoc eht htiw evol ni llef eW .ereh pirt gniddew ruo dah I dna efiw yM" .dedda kazclaW kyrneH ",noomyenoh eht rof tops ylevol a dnif ot erus ekam dnA"_

_.ehca htoot a dah eh ekil kool t'ndid taht elims a deganam kcolrehS tub troffe emos koot tI_

_".boj eht rof nam eht tsuj wonk I kniht I .uoy knahT" .elims etilop tseb sih no deretsalp dah ohw ,nhoJ ta ecnalg a decnahc dna esnet flesmih tlef kcolrehS_

_".llew uoy swonk ohw nam tseb a flesruoy teg :si yas nac I llA" .kcolrehS dna nhoJ ot kcab gninrut ,niaga delims ruhtrA retal tnemom a tub ecamirg a derahs yehT ".em dnimer t'nod ,esaelP"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

But what if John had thought to question why everyone was so very convinced they are a couple?

**> >PLAY<<**

"Please, don't remind me." They shared a grimace but a moment later Arthur smiled again, turning back to John and Sherlock. "All I can say is: get yourself a best man who knows you well."

John sensed rather than saw Sherlock tense beside him. He plastered on his best polite smile, hoping no one would look at his friend too closely just now. "Thank you. I think I know just the man for the job."

His reply got a laugh from the others and as the discussion moved on to honeymoons and Sherlock's tension next to him became reminiscent of a compressed spring, John found himself thinking that while he didn't want anyone else to look at Sherlock and wonder, he had ended up wondering himself.

Certainly his friend had a new tendency to become very stiff-backed and short when John's wedding was mentioned or alluded to. He didn't seem to have taken the comment about best men as the compliment John had intended it to be and instead looked like someone pretending he didn't have a tooth ache.

It occurred to John that perhaps Sherlock didn't want to be his Best Man. But who else would he ask? Who else did he trust well enough to get him to and through his wedding day? And Sherlock had seemed willing enough, after the initial shock. After ... after he had recovered from what, in hindsight, was clearly surprise that John considered him his best friend.

Yet he didn't seem to have any issue with that, or with being close to John. In fact, he did such a good job of being near John that all the other guests and the hotel staff were utterly convinced they were a couple and believed it wholeheartedly, despite the fact that neither of them had ever actually confirmed it or acted in an overly affectionate manner.

Hell, he didn't even look at Sherlock like a man who was utterly besotted - at least not if he could help it.

John glanced uneasily at Sherlock but forgot all about his worries about Sherlock deducing him when he saw the expression on his face.

_ 'I don't,' _ John thought, startled. _ 'But he does.' _

A split second was all he got before Sherlock became aware of John's gaze and wiped the expression off his face.

John blinked. If he was acting, why would he bother hiding the way he looked at John? That didn't make any sense.

Unless ... well, unless he wasn't pretending.

John felt something in his chest constrict at the idea as he frantically rifled through his memory, trying to remember any moments that would support that theory.

It wasn't difficult to find dozens of them. Sherlock asking with a tremulous voice if John thought the idea of being with him was so disgusting he couldn't stand for others to entertain it came to mind and John thought he might be sick.

He barely paid attention to the rest of the conversation, adding a comment here and there when he became aware of something someone was saying, but otherwise turning all his attention inward. Was this how Sherlock felt when he was in his Mind Palace?

Distantly, he became aware of Sherlock making their excuses and roused himself enough to bid the other guests goodbye before following him back to their room.

"John ... are you all right?" Sherlock asked the moment he had closed the door behind him. "You seemed very distracted."

John stared at him, taking in the honest concern on Sherlock's face. God, how was it possible he hadn't noticed this?

He licked his lips. "You're not shamming."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"You're ... you're not pretending," John said. "Down there, with the other guests. You're not pretending to be in love with me."

For a second, he thought he saw panic flicker in Sherlock's eyes but it was replaced with scorn a heartbeat later. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I've been doing nothing else for our entire visit here."

John shook his head. "No you haven't. You've made them all believe it because you're being more honest with them than with me."

Sherlock held his gaze for several long moments as if hoping John would take it back. When he realised that he wouldn't, Sherlock took a step back and dropped his gaze, turning his head away as if that would make him disappear.

"It doesn't matter. If you're worried about my ability to remain professional-"

It wasn't a direct admission but it also wasn't a denial and John could barely hear his words over the roaring in his ears.

"What? No. That's not the problem here at all."

Sherlock somehow managed to shrink further and he turned away to stare out the window. "As I said, it doesn't matter."

"I think it matters rather a lot," John replied hotly.

"Why? You already made your choice, John, and you've been reinforcing it at every opportunity."

"You didn't  _ give _ me a choice," John snapped even has he tried to process the hurt in Sherlock's voice. "You never even suggested that I had another option!"

"You have hundreds of options, John," Sherlock said. "Regardless of what I do or do not do, getting married is your choice. Getting married to Mary is your choice. Being in a relationship with  _ anyone _ is your choice. If you didn't want one or any of these things, perhaps you should do something about it."

Well, that was an invitation if John had ever heard one, wasn't it?

"Great idea," he said. "Once we're back home, I'll call the wedding off."

Sherlock laughed wetly. "Don't be silly, John. You love her."

And oh, the pain in those three words ... John couldn't stand another second of it.

"Not enough," he said softly. "Not as much as you."

Sherlock slowly turned around to stare at him. "Come again?"

"She is safe," John said, trying to explain even as he himself finally began to understand. "She's ... the safe option. She doesn't spend her time with criminals and she isn't in near-constant danger of being killed and she doesn't fake her death and leave me behind. But that's not a good reason to marry her. That's just a bad excuse for doing it even though spending my life with her would bore me to death. It's not her fault, of course, but I can't expect her to measure up to you. Can't expect it of anyone else, either. So why bother? She isn't you. And I suppose that's really all the reason I need to call off this wedding."

They stared at each other for several breathless seconds.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

"You ..." He cleared this throat and tried again. "You really mean that. You're serious."

John nodded. "Yes. I am."

"But you said..."

"It's you or nobody," John told him firmly. "Now please, come here and kiss me so I can stop making silly mistakes right this second."

That, at least, seemed to filter through the shock in Sherlock's brain. He didn't need to be told twice.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_But John didn't see the way Sherlock looked at him and by now he was so used to people's assumptions he had stopped questioning their reasons. And so ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

It took some effort but Sherlock managed a smile that didn't look like he had a tooth ache.

"And make sure to find a lovely spot for the honeymoon," Henryk Walczak added. "My wife and I had our wedding trip here. We fell in love with the country and have returned here every year since."

 


	10. Chapter 10

"So that was interesting," John commented mildly as they stepped back into the temporary sanctuary of their room.

Sherlock made a non-committal hum.

"Still sorting through the information?" John asked, bending to remove his shoes.

That made Sherlock snap to attention. "What? Oh, no, I think I'm done for now. Why are you taking off your shoes?"

"I don't expect we'll be leaving the room since dinner isn't for a while yet," John pointed out. "I'm not going to keep them on all day."

"No no no, keep them on." Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. "You'll need them."

"I will?"

"Unless you plan to dance in socks?"

John stared at him. "Who said anything about dancing?"

Sherlock frowned. "I did. Just now, in fact. Weren't you listening?"

"Yeah, but, Sherlock, we never said a word about dancing."

"We've had entire conversations about dancing back ho- at 221b," Sherlock contradicted him. "Unless you mean to imply that I hallucinated giving you dance lessons?"

John took a moment to respond because he suddenly found himself grappling with the realisation that 'home' and '221b' were no longer the same thing. Even worse, apparently Sherlock also had trouble with the idea, going by his slip-up just now.

He gathered his thoughts. "Of course not. I just don't see why you decided that we should dance now."

Sherlock shrugged, his attention on his phone as he apparently scrolled through his music library. "Practice, John. Can't have you forget everything just because we don't keep practicing. As you just said yourself, dinner won't be for a while and we don't have anything else to do at the moment. I really should have thought of this much sooner, obviously we can't slack off for an entire week."

John sighed, knowing a lost argument when he saw one. Oh well, at least they wouldn't get bored.

"Fine. Can I at least go to the loo first?"

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "If you must."

*****

John did, and Sherlock spent the time selecting an appropriate song. No lyrics, that was important. If there was anything with lyrics in it, he'd be tempted to choose one that all but shouted about his feelings to the casual listener, i.e. John, and there was only so much pain Sherlock was willing to put himself through.

Finally, he settled on a nice classical piece with a bit of violin in it and tried to gather his concentration. It would not do to slip up now. Dancing, holding John close, his hands in Sherlock's hands, their bodies only a breath apart ... it was hard. Sherlock was very determined to make sure that _he_ would not be. Even John in all his obliviousness was likely to notice if Sherlock developed an unwelcome erection at precisely the worst possible moment.

So, no thinking about the feel of John's skin on his, no paying attention to the way his breath would brush Sherlock's throat, no thought given to the heat of his body so close.

All he was permitted was to pay attention to John's footwork and his posture and his knowledge of the steps and that was absolutely it. He could do this. He had done so on numerous occasions at 221b. There was no reason why it wouldn't work now.

"Okay then," John said, clearing his throat and effectively stopping Sherlock from panicking. "I'm as ready now as I'll ever be, so let's get started."

Sherlock hoped the look on his face would pass for a smile. "Do you still remember the steps?"

"Most of them, I think," John admitted thoughtfully. "I'm sure you'll point out if I make a mistake."

"That is rather the point of teaching you," Sherlock defended himself.

"And it's fine," John assured him hastily. "I'm really glad you're going to all this effort so I won't embarrass myself in front of everyone at the reception." He smiled awkwardly, clearly uncomfortable at the idea of exhibiting in front of others. "Really. Thank you."

Sherlock had to look away before he replied, for fear that John would see more on his face than he wished him to. "Any time, John."

He moved into position in the middle of the room, waited for John to join him, and hit play on his phone. And as he guided John through the steps, he tried very hard not to think about how he would never get to dance with him at the wedding, how all of John's future dances were already claimed by Mary and there was no place for Sherlock except standing at the sidelines, slowly fading into the background until there was nothing left of him.

He closed his eyes for a moment to banish the thought, and then firmly told himself to focus on the dance lesson.

*****

"Sorry," John muttered for what felt like the hundredth time as he accidentally stepped on Sherlock's foot.

His friend didn't reply and a quick glance told John that he had his eyes closed and a slightly pained expression on his face. A moment later, he blinked them open and looked down at John with all the patience he could possibly muster. Which, surprisingly, was a lot. Sometimes John wondered if Sherlock ever ran out of patience where he was concerned. It didn't seem to happen, certainly hadn't done so since Sherlock's unexpected return from the dead.

And now here they were, dancing, with John's hand on Sherlock's waist and Sherlock's hand on his shoulder and their other hands clasped and their feet moving along in time with the music.

It felt ... good, actually. He felt he was becoming better at remembering the steps, starting to develop a muscle memory of where to go when and what to do next.

Dancing with Sherlock felt good, too, now that he thought about it. Sherlock never did have a concept of personal space anyway, but they had never really touched each other except for a pat on the shoulder or to shove each other out of the lines of bullets or to grab a wrist or elbow to get attention.

Well, and of course there had been that time when John had physically assaulted a newly not-dead Sherlock in a posh restaurant, a less posh restaurant and a late-night kebab shop. Somehow, he felt that didn't really count.

Otherwise, touch was not something they usually did and it was surprisingly gratifying to have this excuse to reach out and hold on to Sherlock and really feel him and know that he was there, solid and real and alive. Sometimes, during those dancing lessons at 221b, John had caught himself wishing he wouldn't have to let go.

Usually, that was the part where he would miss a step, out of sheer surprise at his own stupidity.

He had already put all of that to rest, for god's sake. There was nothing he was allowed to hold on to. Nothing of Sherlock's, at least. Sherlock was married to his Work and John was going to be married to Mary, and that was that. It was pointless to think about other options, to consider the what-ifs and the buts and how-abouts.

And it wasn't as if anything could ever have come of it anyway. Sometimes, he wondered whether he might have been brave enough to make a move, if there was no Mary. But if it wasn't for her, there wouldn't be any dance lessons and the entire thing was stupid. He should stop thinking about it right now.

He looked up at Sherlock's face and accidentally met his gaze, which had been fixed on him, and the jolt that ran through him was as shockingly strong as it had always been, every damn time their eyes met in the hallway as they gasped for breath after a chase through London's streets. Moments like this were the reason he sometimes wondered.

Knowing he couldn't hold Sherlock's intense gaze for long without giving something of his own confusion away, he tore his gaze away and looked down at his feet as if to check that he was moving them correctly.

"Head up," Sherlock promptly admonished him. "Look over my shoulder ... well, _at_ my shoulder, if you must, but don't ever look down at your feet while dancing."

"Git," John muttered fondly, and felt something inside him relax. This was familiar territory. They were dancing. Sherlock was teaching him how to dance so he wouldn't botch up his wedding dance with Mary. That was all there was.

_'Get a grip, Watson.'_

Getting a grip was more difficult than it should have been, because he suddenly found himself very aware of Sherlock. Sherlock's large hands touching him, the heat of his body that shouldn't have been surprising but still was, the scent of his shampoo and whatever it was he used to tame his curls.

_'Product'_ John's brain helpfully supplied. _'Because as he himself told you, gay men put product in their hair.'_

John wished there was an off-switch for that voice. It was annoying and confusing and telling him things he very much didn't want to hear or think about. It made him want to reach out and bury one hand in Sherlock's hair just to find out what it felt like. It made him want to do things he could never take back, things that were so far outside the context of friendship they didn't deserve to be named in the same sentence. He fought them off, all of them, but the want stayed.

And with it came the guilt. Guilt, and shame, because he was less than a month away from getting married to a wonderful woman whom he loved, and he had no business thinking about his best friend as anything but that. Best friend, best man. That was it. And Sherlock certainly wouldn't thank him for taking liberties.

He sighed and tried to think about Mary. Holding her in his arms, kissing her. He wondered what it would be like, dancing with her. She was small, about the same height as him. He would not have to raise his hands quite so high, wouldn't have to bend his head back at all, wouldn't breathe in the scent of Sherlock's shampoo and the air just before a storm and something oddly thrilling that was all Sherlock.

John realised that thinking about his fiancée wasn't working half as well as he had hoped, but he didn't quite know how to get out this loop he was in, not with Sherlock so close and his thoughts going in circles and Sherlock being right there and ...

"John?" Sherlock's voice broke through his spinning thoughts and he blinked up at him to find Sherlock looking ... odd.

"Is everything all right?"

Was it his imagination or did Sherlock's voice sound huskier than usual? And that look on his face ... was that mere confusion and worry, or was there something else?

John didn't know, didn't dare let himself think that what he had seen was a split second of longing, didn't allow himself to think like that. Because Sherlock had already made his stance clear on that subject and John was being an idiot right now.

"Fine," he said, snatching in a breath. "Just ... thinking about the wedding, is all. I can't believe it's less than a month away."

"Three weeks, four days and nineteen hours," Sherlock told him.

Of course he would have a countdown in his head.

John decided the mood needed to be lightened. "What, you're telling me you don't know it down to the minute?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I merely didn't wish to bother you with the minor details. Of course, the number of minutes might still change depending on the conditions on the day, on whether or not everyone is on time and if the weather will allow for-"

"All right, all right, I give up!" John exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air with a quiet laugh that he hoped sounded sincere. "Fine. You win. I'm sorry for doubting you."

"As you should be," Sherlock said gravely. "I will not let you down, John. Never that."

The sudden gravity to his voice, his words, immediately removed all lightness from the moment.

John swallowed. "Thank you," he said softly. "I know you won't, Sherlock, and I don't think you ever could."

The smile that twisted Sherlock's lips could only be called bitter. "If you say so, I shall have to try harder to aspire to your expectations."

John shook his head. "No. You've already exceeded all of them and you keep doing so. I know I can depend on you to do the right thing."

There it was again, that odd expression on Sherlock's face. "Yes, John," he said. "You can."

They concluded their impromptu dance lesson soon after that and wordlessly agreed not to mention it again. John wondered if Sherlock had seen his hands shaking.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_".yawa htnom a naht ssel s'ti eveileb t'nac I .lla si ,gniddew eht tuoba gnikniht ... tsuJ" .htaerb a ni gnihctans ,dias eh ",eniF"_

_.won thgir toidi na gnieb saw nhoJ dna tcejbus taht no raelc ecnats sih edam ydaerla dah kcolrehS esuaceB .taht ekil kniht ot flesmih wolla t'ndid ,gnignol fo dnoces tilps a saw nees dah eh tahw taht kniht flesmih tel erad t'ndid ,wonk t'ndid nhoJ_

_?esle gnihtemos ereht saw ro ,yrrow dna noisufnoc erem taht saw ... ecaf sih no kool taht dnA ?lausu naht reiksuh dnuos eciov s'kcolrehS did ro noitanigami sih ti saW_

_"?thgir lla gnihtyreve sI"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if John hadn't changed the topic?_

**> >PLAY<<**

"Is everything all right?"

John raised his eyes and there was Sherlock, right in front of him and looking concerned and confused and something complicated he couldn't name.

The need to reach out and touch his face made John's hand twitch where it rested on Sherlock's shoulder and he took half a step back, trying to regain his equilibrium.

But as he increased the distance between them, Sherlock made a tiny noise in his throat, a barely-there sound of protest, and just for a moment lost his usual iron-clad control over his body. He swayed forward.

And John, who had been in situations like this dozens of times, knew how to read body language even when the body wasn't the type he often went for. He certainly knew it when it was the body of the specific man in front of him.

He raised his gaze and there it was again, that complicated expression on Sherlock's face. It looked a little bit like desperation and hope.

John stared at him for a second and then he thought _'Fuck this'_.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when he stepped forward, and then forward again, so deep inside Sherlock's personal space his friend had no choice but to back away to avoid being run over. Sherlock's back hit the wall just as John raised his left hand off his shoulder to gather a good handful of Sherlock's hair in his grip and tugged his head down.

And oh, _yes_. _This._

Sherlock's warm mouth on his, those soft lips parted in surprise, the shape of that devastating cupid's bow against John's lips... he moaned and pressed closer.

Sherlock made another tiny noise, his right hand clenching around John's waist, his left clutching at John's hand as his mouth fell open and his muscles loosened.

And this ... this was what John had been waiting for. This closeness, Sherlock's surrender clearly telegraphed by every line of his body as he sagged against the wall, blindly seeking out John's mouth and kissing him back.

He could feel the change in Sherlock's emotions in the way he kissed, how open-mouthed surprise became an overwhelmed shock, quickly followed by confusion and then the same 'what the hell' that had gone through John's head. And then reciprocration. Sherlock returned the kiss, desperately, luring John's tongue back into his mouth again and again, tilting his head this way and that not in search of a better angle but unable to decide on one he liked best, until John tightened his grip on Sherlock's hair.

It drew a ragged moan from his throat, followed by a full-body shudder that made John step closer, wanting to feel more of it, of Sherlock, of everything.

God, he should have done this months ago. Years ago, perhaps. But that was all right. He was doing it now. He could make up for lost time.

He drew back for a moment to draw in a harsh breath. Sherlock whimpered against him and dipped his head, trying to catch John's mouth with his own again.

" _John..._ "

He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's throat, let his lips trail up and along his jawline, gently biting at any section of skin that caught his fancy.

Sherlock moaned, the hand not clinging to John's own rising to the back of his head to card through John's hair and pull him closer.

" _John._ "

And this ... Sherlock's voice, wrecked with need, gasping his name ... he could live for this, John thought.

"God, Sherlock." He couldn't not reply, couldn't not turn his head and slot their mouths together again, couldn't not kiss him until they were both breathless.

When he pulled back this time and looked at Sherlock, at his wild hair and dark eyes and swollen mouth, he couldn't understand why he had thought for even a moment that Sherlock didn't want any of this. Or him. It was impossible to feel unwanted when Sherlock was looking at him as if seeing John was the only thing keeping him alive.

"John," Sherlock said again, as if it was the only word he still knew.

"Yes," John breathed. He pulled Sherlock to him again.

Just this once, words were unnecessary.

**> >STOP<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_Actions speak louder than words, sometimes. Unfortunately, John wasn't listening. And so..._

**> >PLAY<<**

"Is everything all right?"

Was it his imagination or did Sherlock's voice sound huskier than usual? And that look on his face ... was that mere confusion and worry, or was there something else?

John didn't know, didn't dare let himself think that what he had seen was a split second of longing, didn't allow himself to think like that. Because Sherlock had already made his stance clear on that subject and John was being an idiot right now.

"Fine," he said, snatching in a breath. "Just ... thinking about the wedding, is all. I can't believe it's less than a month away."

 


	11. Chapter 11

"Harold is getting on my nerves," Sherlock growled as they left the dining hall that evening.

"Did he slip you his phone number again?" Amusement coloured John's voice - he clearly thought the entire thing was absolutely hilarious.

Sherlock shook his head, pulling a crumbled piece of paper out of his pocket. "A note telling me to meet him outside later tonight if I _want to see stars_."

"Pretty straightforward," John commented.

He gave a snort. "There's nothing straight about this menace, John. I can't be any more discouraging without hitting him over the head with-" He broke off, an idea occuring to him. "You know what? Forget it."

"What, did you change your mind? Are you going to meet with him?"

Sherlock shuddered at the mere thought. "Don't be ridiculous."

Turning his idea around in his head and looking for any flaws but finding none, he marched down the corridor and towards the stairs leading up to the rooms. Instead of ascending them, however, he walked right past them in the direction of the kitchen.

"Sh- William, where are you going?" John demanded, catching himself just in time before blurting out his name.

"Oh, nothing important, just clearing up a small misunderstanding," Sherlock told him blithely, coming to a stop in a small niche right next to the kitchen, a darker corner where he couldn't be seen immediately by anyone looking down the hallway. "Come on."

John rolled his eyes at the lack of information but followed, wedging his body into the corner next to Sherlock's.

"What are we waiting for?"

"Not what, who," Sherlock corrected, checking his watch. "We just left the dining hall and the only remaining guest was Patricia, who was in the process of leaving herself. Considering the time it will take to clear the tables, load up the trolley and navigate it here, he should be coming down the hall in twenty to thirty seconds."

"And then?" John asked, not even bothering with the "who" anymore. Perhaps he had figured that part out.

"And then I need you to play along," Sherlock told him, forcing himself to pay attention to the hall instead of the way John's body felt pressed so closely against his. It would be far easier for everyone involved if he managed to stay calm and aloof.

"Fine, don't tell me anything," John grumbled. "I could actually help if you gave me some bloody information, but hey, who cares?"

Sherlock's response was prevented by the rattling noise of Harold and the tea trolley arriving.

Not about to give John or himself any time to hesitate, Sherlock whirled around, effectively boxing John in against the wall and leaving not an inch between their bodies as he cupped his best friend's face in both hands and kissed him.

On a scale from 'peck' to 'full-blown make-out session' this kiss bordered on 'indecent' for precisely the four seconds it took John to get over the shock. And then he opened his mouth - whether in reciprocation or to ask what the hell Sherlock was doing remained a mystery forever - and Sherlock took full advantage by sliding his tongue into his mouth and urging John even closer.

It was at around this point that the borders to indecency crumbled into dust and Sherlock became aware of the two huge flaws in his idea.

The first one had been his assumption that he would be able to remain calm and aloof, as if such a thing had ever been a possibility in the first place.

The second one was that he had truly and honestly believed he could not possibly get any deeper into trouble than he already was.

The moment their tongues touched, both of those mistakes became glaringly obvious because Sherlock promptly forgot all about the case or the fact that he was only doing this to get Harold to back off (a rather feeble excuse in retrospect). Instead, there was only John. John everywhere, filling all his senses with his scent and his taste and his gasp of surprise that very quickly turned into a moan and his warm body pressed so close against Sherlock's own and his hands holding on to Sherlock's hips (when had that happened?) and by now he wouldn't have noticed if Harold had pushed a decomposing body past them on the trolley.

Vaguely, he was aware of another gasp somewhere behind him and a muttered apology before the trolley rattled on, much faster than before. Sherlock could only hope that Harold had gotten the message but the interruption was at least enough to make him remember where and with whom he was and why.

He waited for the waiter to turn around the corner, then forced all his walls up high as he straightened up and reluctantly drew back.

*****

**> >Pause<<**

**> >Rewind<<**

_.kcab werd yltnatculer dna pu denethgiarts eh sa hgih pu sllaw sih lla decrof neht ,renroc eht dnuora nrut ot retiaw eht rof detiaw eH_

_.yhw dna saw eh mohw htiw dna erehw rebmemer mih ekam ot hguone tsael ta saw noitpurretni eht tub egassem eht nettog dah dloraH taht epoh ylno dluoc kcolrehS .erofeb naht retsaf hcum ,no delttar yellort eht erofeb ygolopa derettum a dna mih dniheb erehwemos psag rehtona fo erawa saw eh ,yleugaV_

_.yellort eht no meht tsap ydob gnisopmoced a dehsup dah dloraH fi deciton evah t'ndluow eh won yb dna (?deneppah taht dah nehw) spih s'kcolrehS ot no gnidloh sdnah sih dna nwo s'kcolrehS tsniaga esolc os desserp ydob mraw sih dna naom a otni denrut ylkciuq yrev taht esirprus fo psag sih dna etsat sih dna tnecs sih htiw sesnes sih lla gnillif ,erehwyreve nhoJ .nhoJ ylno saw ereht ,daetsnI . (tcepsorter ni esucxe elbeef rehtar a) ffo kcab ot dloraH teg ot siht gniod ylno saw eh taht tcaf eht ro esac eht tuoba lla togrof yltpmorp kcolrehS esuaceb suoivbo ylgniralg emaceb sekatsim esoht fo htob ,dehcuot seugnot rieht tnemom ehT_

**> >Pause<<**

_But what if Sherlock had lost control?_

**> >Play<<**

The moment their tongues touched, both of those mistakes became glaringly obvious because Sherlock promptly forgot all about the case or the fact that he was only doing this to get Harold to back off (a rather feeble excuse in retrospect). Instead, there was only John. John everywhere, filling all his senses with his scent and his taste and his gasp of surprise that very quickly turned into a moan and his warm body pressed so close against Sherlock's own and his hands holding on to Sherlock's hips (when had that happened?) and by now he wouldn't have noticed if Harold had pushed a decomposing body past them on the trolley.

All he knew was John, John, John.

Sherlock forgot about Harold, forgot about the murder, forgot about why he was here, forgot about Mary and the wedding and that all of this was just a farce.

He simply kissed John, the way he had always wanted to, the way he had longed to for too many years.

And when he finally remembered, it was far too late.

*****

John wasn't a complete moron. Sherlock's cryptic comment about someone being there soon, followed by rattle of the drinks trolley and Sherlock boxing John in against the wall were hardly difficult hints to figure out and so, when Sherlock kissed him, John was ready to let him for the sake of getting Harold off his back. Lord knew he was always happy to help people get rid of unwanted admirers.

So, being the good friend that he was, John decided to play along and let Sherlock have his little charade.

It only took until approximately five seconds after Sherlock's tongue slid into his mouth that John realised something was wrong.

This was not the sort of fake kiss he had allowed his female friends to draw him into on similar occasions at the pub. This was different.

There was an edge of desperation to this. Sherlock kissed him like a fiend, as if the world was ending and this was the only opportunity they would ever have, as if he couldn't bear for his mouth to be separated from John's for even a single second. He kissed John as if he had wanted to do so for too long and had finally given up on trying to deny himself.

In short, Sherlock kissed him as if he were desperately in love with him.

The thought had only just occurred to him when Sherlock stilled and then quite suddenly backed away as if burned. John opened his eyes and found Sherlock two paces away, breathing heavily and looking rather shell-shocked, as if he had not expected his own behaviour.

As John watched, his friend's expression went from shocked and slightly dazed to utterly horrified, followed by what could only be described as terror. He backed away another step.

"Sorry," Sherlock rasped, looking stricken. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

He broke off, as if whatever he had intended to say was too big a lie for him to force out.

And before John got a chance to say or do anything, Sherlock turned, walked back to the entrance hall with large strides and disappeared from sight. A second later, the front door opened and closed rather loudly.

"Shit," John said, raising one shaking hand to his mouth.

He hadn't expected ... he hadn't thought ... but oh, it was so clear now. So obvious, if only he had taken the time to pay attention and put the pieces together. Sherlock had done nothing so far except drop increasingly obvious hints, after all. Well, he could hardly get any more obvious than this, could he? And this time, John was definitely paying attention.

And he sure as hell was not going to leave things like this.

He had barely come to that conclusion when he was already pushing off the wall and hurrying after Sherlock. As much as he disliked confrontations of this kind, it would be better to just get it over with sooner rather than later, before either of them could find the time to say or do something stupid.

He ran outside just in time to see Sherlock's dark curls disappear behind the next hilltop. John promptly followed suit, hurrying up the hill until he came to a slightly breathless halt on top.

Sherlock had not gone far. He sat about twenty feet downhill in the grass, his head in his hands. The mere sight of him made John's heart hurt.

He took a deep breath and carefully picked his way down the hill, glancing back to note that they were effectively invisible from the hotel now.

Sherlock heard him coming, of course. His shoulders tensed as John stepped up in front of him, blocking out the sinking sun. For once, he got to tower over his taller friend and he found he didn't enjoy it.

After a couple of minutes of silence, Sherlock dropped his hands and finally lifted his head to look John in the eye.

The defeat and despair on his face spoke volumes.

"John, I-"

John lunged for him and Sherlock toppled backward, suddenly flat on his back against the steep hillside as John bore down on him. The time for words was long past.

Sherlock's surprised gasp turned into a moan as John kissed him, using his full weight to press him into the grass and finally let himself have a go at that gorgeous mouth before letting his lips trace a path down to Sherlock's bare throat. The action elicited a deep groan and both of Sherlock's hands tangled in John's jumper, holding on to him as if he might disappear if Sherlock didn't keep touching him.

Finally, when he thought Sherlock was sufficiently breathless, John drew back.

"The hallway to the kitchen? Really? You couldn't have found a better place to kiss me?"

"I-" Sherlock began but clearly didn't have enough breath or cognitive function back yet to form anything resembling a sentence.

"We have an entire hotel full of rooms with nice, large beds available and you had to have a go at me in the kitchen corridor?" John laughed. "Oh, Sherlock."

Sherlock let his head fall back into the grass and stared up at him, his eyes dark and wide and his breathing ragged. "Didn't think it would matter where precisely I ruined everything," he gasped out.

John grinned. "Wouldn't call that a ruination, but I can see your point. I do wish you would have at least had the good sense to flee upstairs to our room, though."

Sherlock blinked at him, clearly not back up to speed yet. "Huh?"

"Neither of us is in a condition to be seen by anyone else for the next half hour or so. Now, if we were already upstairs in our room, that would have been fine, but how are we going to get up there now?"

"We could ..." Sherlock paused and licked his lips, unable to take his eyes off John. "We could stay right here for half an hour while you explain to me why you aren't absolutely furious. That might do for you, but I can assure you it will do nothing for me. I'm afraid I'm never going to be presentable while you're anywhere in the vicinity."

John laughed, dropping his head to Sherlock's chest. A moment later, he felt one of Sherlock's hands settle on his head, long fingers gently stroking through his hair.

John sighed and listened to Sherlock's rapid heartbeat beneath him. "You need to solve this murder as quickly as you can."

"Mmh? Whyever would I do that?"

"Remember how I said I didn't care how quickly you solved this case, we'd stay here all week anyway? I can think of some fun ways to fill all that spare time and I really don't want you to be distracted." Smiling, John stretched a little to place a kiss under Sherlock's jaw, unable to resist the temptation of his skin when it was so close.

Sherlock groaned. "Murder? What murder? Never heard of it. Stop talking nonsense and kiss me again."

John did.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_But John was in denial and Sherlock was too good an actor and instead ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

Vaguely, he was aware of another gasp somewhere behind him and a muttered apology before the trolley rattled on, much faster than before. Sherlock could only hope that Harold had gotten the message but the interruption was at least enough to make him remember where and with whom he was and why.

He waited for the waiter to turn around the corner, then forced all his walls up high as he straightened up and reluctantly drew back.

*****

For several seconds, John didn't move. He simply stood there, frozen like a deer in the headlights. His heart was beating too fast to be healthy and his mouth felt strangely cold without the hot, heady presence of Sherlock's.

Because Sherlock had kissed him.

Sherlock, who was now staring at him with an unfairly calm, if somewhat discomfited, expression.

Belatedly, John realised his hands were still firmly bracketing his best friend's hips. How had they ended up there? Quickly, he snatched them away, feeling his ears start to burn at how they must have looked, crowded together in a convenient niche, making out.

_Making out._

He had to repeat that phrase in his head, it sounded so alien. The idea of him and Sherlock doing anything of the sort was ... well. Not in the cards. Not even remotely possible. Apart from the not exactly minor fact of John's own approaching wedding to a very lovely woman whom he adored, there was the matter of Sherlock's self-professed utter lack of interest in any kind of sexual relationship with anyone these days.

Even now, Sherlock had already half turned away from him and was staring down the hallway in the direction the waiter had gone with the trolley. Dear god, someone had seen them. Whatever had caused this moment of madness, someone had seen them.

Suddenly, John remembered he was supposed to be furious with Sherlock for doing this.

"What," he bit out, "the hell was that?"

Sherlock turned back to look at him. "I thought that was obvious," he said calmly.

Cool, collected, unaffected. Something about his expression also suggested a hint of disgust. Clearly, he hadn't enjoyed the experience, regardless of the fact that it had been his idea in the first place.

"I damn well know what it felt like," John hissed. "What I'd like to know is the point of this little display."

His friend shrugged. "Making a point."

"To whom?"

"Harold."

"Har-?" He broke off, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "The point being?"

"That I'm not interested, of course, and would like him to cease his flirtation," Sherlock explained calmly. "I calculated the precise time it would take him to come by here whilst fulfilling his duties and arranged for him to walk in on us in an obviously compromising position to make it absolutely clear how little chance he has of succeeding in his endeavour to seduce me. I thought that was fairly obvious."

A trick. Of course. Nothing but a bloody trick to discourage an unwelcome admirer. And here John had thought there might be more to it. For just a second, he had been ready to consider the possibility of this being precisely what it had looked like - that Sherlock wanted him.

But no - another searching look at Sherlock's face confirmed that there was nothing approaching carnal interest in his eyes. On the contrary, he looked vaguely sick. John didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted. He did know that he had absolutely no right to feel rejected. He did so anyway.

"You know," he said, deciding to shrug the entire incident off. "You could have told me."

"You would have kicked up a fuss and I'd have wasted precious time talking you into it," Sherlock pointed out. "My way was much more efficient."

John nodded. "I give you that, but I do not appreciate being pounced on in empty corridors or anywhere else, for that matter. You better hope and pray this does not get back to Mary because I'd leave it to you to explain this to her."

"It won't," Sherlock told him confidently. "I'm not going to say anything and neither are you. What reason would we have? It was a means to an end which has hopefully been achieved. I really don't see why you should have anything to worry about."

And before John had a chance to berate him for his casual disregard of personal boundaries, Sherlock had turned around and was walking back the way they had come.

Deciding he deserved a bit of a rest, John stayed where he was. His lips were still tingling from the sudden and rather passionate kiss. To be honest, he hadn't known Sherlock had it in him. It appeared he had been sadly mistaken. And if the thought that all this had been merely for the sake of getting Harold to back off caused a small sting somewhere deep in his chest, he wisely chose to ignore it.

His wedding was three weeks away. The organisation of which Sherlock was heavily involved in. Now was the worst possible time for those old desires and wishes to resurface. Not that any other time had ever been any better, to be honest. Sherlock's profound lack of interest had always ensured that John behaved himself and his wayward, traitorous thoughts. Mostly.

Shaking his head, John took a deep breath, shoved all thoughts of kissing Sherlock senseless resolutely away and made to follow his friend.

After all, they still had a murderer to catch.

*****

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!

Sherlock wanted to bang his head against a wall in frustration.

What had he been thinking?

_'Nothing, obviously.'_

He strode down the hallway and up the stairs in a daze, so focused on his own panicked thoughts he didn't even realise he had kept walking upwards past their own floor until a female voice called out to him.

"I wouldn't go up there, Mr Sigerson!"

He stopped, blinked, and looked around. He was past the top floor and halfway up the stairs to the attic. Turning around, he found a maid standing on the landing beneath him, carrying a stack of fresh laundry.

"Excuse me?"

She smiled. "You can, of course, if you want to. The attic isn't closed to guests. I just thought I should warn you about going up there at night." She lowered her voice in a conspiratory manner. "Everyone knows the attic is haunted."

"Is it?" he asked dubiously.

She nodded. "We can hear the ghost sometimes. Howling, banging about, making quite a ruckus... but no one's ever seen it, though people have gone up to investigate the noise dozens of times."

"And is this ghost very consistent? Does it appear regularly?"

She shook her head. "Sometimes not for months or even years," she said.

"And has it been active recently? During this murder everyone's talking about, for example?"

"Oh, do you think the ghost did it?!" The maid clapped her hand to her mouth. "Oh dear!"

"I really don't think so," Sherlock said. "But it's never a bad idea to know all the circumstances. So, was it active?"

"It has been, recently, yes," she said slowly. "We didn't think much of it, it often acts up around this time of the year, so no one was particularly surprised, you see?"

Sherlock nodded. "I see. May I go up?"

He gestured up the stairs.

She grinned. "As I said - you're free to do as you please. If you see the ghost, do come downstairs and tell me all about it, won't you?"

And she hurried away with her stack of laundry.

Sherlock stroked his mouth in thought, then hurriedly snatched his hand away when the sensation triggered a startlingly intense flashback to kissing John.

God, he had been stupid to do that.

He fought a shudder and continued walking up the stairs. He knew that John had seen the look of disgust on his face and could only hope that he would attribute it to the kiss itself and not Sherlock's horror at his own pathetic lack of control over his emotions.

Sentiment.

He shivered. If this continued for much longer, it would be the death of him.

 


	12. Chapter 12

John marched into his and Sherlock's room, fully expecting to find his friend sulking in one of the armchairs or perhaps pointedly brushing his teeth and rinsing with mouthwash.

Instead, the room was empty. He checked the bathroom and even the closet just to make sure, then shook his head at himself. Sherlock had already come out - in a way - in the dining room the other day, he was highly unlikely to be lurking in any closets.

_'You might find a mirror and your own face looking back at you'_ a snide voice in John's head suggested and he resolutely turned his back on the closet, marched into the bathroom and did exactly what he had expected Sherlock to be doing - he washed the taste of him out of his mouth.

It didn't help much in taking his mind off of what had happened, but at least he was now free to think past the distracting and unwelcome urge to find Sherlock and continue what he had started.

_'He hasn't started anything'_ John reminded himself sternly. _'It was just another trick, just a way to get Harold to back off. He said so himself. And he certainly didn't enjoy it.'_

He paused and threw his hands up in exasperation. _'Why am I even thinking about this? I'm getting married in less than a month. This has to stop.'_

He realised he was pacing in front of the bed and threw himself onto the mattress with a huff. Perhaps he could take a nap. Yes, that would be nice. A long nap without any stupid thoughts and no Sherlock to throw him any curve balls. He hadn't gotten much sleep last night, after all, what with all the sneaking around. And Sherlock probably wanted to sneak around tonight as well.

Sighing, John toed off his shoes and curled up on the bed. At least his army days had taught him the valuable skill of falling asleep at the drop of a hat whenever he had the time. He closed his eyes and drifted off...

... only to be awoken about an hour later when the door to their room fell closed with a bang.

He sat up, disoriented, and found himself blinking at a tall, grey apparition that, upon further squinting, turned out to be Sherlock.

Sherlock, who appeared very disgruntled and looked like he had gotten caught inside a vacuum cleaner.

"Where have you been?" John demanded. "And why the hell are you covered in dust?"

Sherlock scowled. "I've been investigating the attic."

"The attic?"

"Yes. One of the maids said it was supposed to be haunted. Of course I went to investigate."

"And you didn't wait for me?"

"Figured you'd want some time to conquer the urge to punch me in the nose and then take a nap," Sherlock said, shrugging.

He looked like he always did - serious, aloof, focused on the case. And covered in dust.

"Must've been a pretty dusty attic," John commented, letting Sherlock's remark about punching him slide.

Sherlock's mouth twisted. "Indeed. If there is a ghost in there, I imagine it has some quite dreadful allergies by now. Even the dust is dusty."

"Looking at you, I think most of the dust has now left the attic and decided to reassemble into the form of a consulting detective. A very credible impression, too. Can it do deductions?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him but John saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a hidden smile.

"If you say so. I'm taking a shower. Again. I think I've got dust in places even a medical man wouldn't expect."

*****

Sherlock closed the bathroom door behind him and sagged against it with a sigh. It was sheer dumb luck that John had not approached him just now, possibly helped by all the dust covering him, and he chose to be very very glad about it.

Otherwise, John might have realised that Sherlock looked a bit too dishevelled for someone who had just been traipsing around a dusty attic, that his cheeks were a little too flushed and that he smelled like a man who had been forced to remove himself from polite company in order to deal with a raging and thoroughly distracting erection. Which was precisely what had happened.

He fumbled behind himself to lock the door, then shed his filthy clothes and proceeded to take his second shower of the day. His hands were still shaking just a little, despite his having spent a good half an hour poking around the attic as he waited for the last aftershocks to pass and for his heart rate to return to normal. Fat lot of good that had done, considering that he had returned to find John lying on the bed in their room. At least he had been fully dressed, thus stopping Sherlock from accidentally concluding his friend had been waiting for him to pick up where they had left off outside the kitchen.

"Disgusting," he muttered to himself and turned the water on as cold as he dared to.

Pathetically, he hadn't even realised just how aroused he was until he had entered the attic. He was reasonably sure that the maid hadn't noticed anything amiss, considering his position by the staircase railing and the angle at which they had stood. It was the only positive side to all of this mess. And there had been a mess. Another point on which luck had been on his side, perhaps. He had had a tissue on him, of course - one never knew when one might stumble upon some evidence and need a clean tissue to wrap it in until an evidence bag could be procured -, but he had also found a cloth handkerchief on a dusty sideboard. There had even been initials embroidered on it and he had pocketed it in case its owner wasn't long gone and wanted it back. He could only hope they wouldn't come looking for it in the attic - in exchange for the handkerchief, he had left his soiled paper tissue behind, carefully hidden in a dark corner.

He briefly considered going back for it later to safely destroy it somehow. A small fire would do the trick.

God, he was still shaking. He couldn't even tell if it was due to the cold water or the after-effects of falling apart so spectacularly.

Reluctantly, he turned the shower temperature up until the water was comfortably warm, and started lathering his body in soap. Best to wash off every last trace of his latest failure.

His whole body spasmed as his hands trailed between his legs and he bit his lip to cut off a moan. This hadn't happened to him in ... he wanted to say years, but that wasn't entirely true, now, was it? Certainly this intensity was new and he knew perfectly well what had caused it. It was one thing to wonder, perhaps even fantasise a bit, but quite another to suddenly have a memory seared into his brain to fall back on. _God_ , the feel and taste of him. How long had he been wondering? Months? Years? He wasn't entirely sure anymore, but he had always known where to draw the line, had always nibbed any thoughts of a sexual nature in the bud.

But today he hadn't stood a chance and so he had ended up in a dusty attic with helpless lust zapping through his veins and he couldn't have stopped himself if his life had depended on it. Even worse, he hadn't wanted to.

He didn't have a good excuse, he knew that, but he dared anyone to passionately kiss John Watson and then walk away unaffected. And to think he had believed himself capable of staying aloof, of keeping his wits about him. Laughable. He could count himself lucky he had managed to escape before John had noticed his deplorable state. He didn't even want to imagine how John would have reacted ...

Sherlock shuddered.

No, better not think about it.

He reached for the shampoo bottle and started massaging the shampoo into his hair, careful not to pull. In his current state, the very last thing he needed was to accidentally twist his follicles the wrong way. There was a good chance John would break down the door if he heard the sound of a grown man collapsing in the shower because his legs were shaking too badly to carry him.

That was one conversation Sherlock wasn't very keen on having anytime this century.

_"Good lord, Sherlock, what happened?"_

_"Well, you see, John, kissing you left me turned on like a teenager so I had to go rub one out in private and now I don't think I can get up on my own."_

Yes, that would definitely go down well.

Also, he would rather swallow his own tongue than say something like that out loud. And certainly not in these particular words.

Banishing those thoughts from his mind, he focused on washing the shampoo out of his hair while he methodically rebuilt all his walls and defenses against sentiment. There would be no more slip-ups, no more close calls or sudden bursts of desperate lust. He would stay calm and controlled and he would not let John see just how out his depth he really was.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_".tcepxe t'ndluow nam lacidem a neve secalp ni tsud tog ev'I kniht I .niagA .rewohs a gnikat m'I .os yas uoy fI"_

_.elims neddih a ni hctiwt htuom sih fo renroc eht was nhoJ tub mih ta seye sih dellor kcolrehS_

_"?snoitcuded od ti naC .oot ,noisserpmi elbiderc yrev A .evitceted gnitlusnoc a fo mrof eht otni elbmessaer ot dediced dna citta eht tfel won sah tsud eht fo tsom kniht I ,uoy ta gnikooL"_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if John noticed Sherlock's dishevelled state?_

**> >PLAY<<**

"Looking at you, I think most of the dust has now left the attic and decided to reassemble into the form of a consulting detective. A very credible impression, too. Can it do deductions?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him but John saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a hidden smile.

"If you say so. I'm taking a shower. Again. I think I've got dust in places even a medical man wouldn't expect."

John watched as Sherlock turned away and thought there was something a bit hasty in the movement. What was Sherlock hiding?

He thought his friend's face looked a bit flushed, a hint of colour on those sharp cheekbones, clearly visible despite the dust. And there was a lot of dust in Sherlock's hair, too, which was surprisingly messy. Dust seemed to be covering every inch of him but that didn't explain the messy hair. Sherlock was fastidious about it and only ran his hands through it in moments of great 'Nothing about this case makes sense' frustration. The dust made sense. The messiness didn't.

And how was it possible for Sherlock to have "dust in places even a medical man wouldn't expect"? Dust wasn't like sand that somehow got under all your clothes - it tended to cling to the first bit of fabric it encountered instead.

So if there was dust where Sherlock had just implied it was, then he must have taken off at least some of his clothes for it to get there.

John blinked. He wasn't a complete idiot, no matter what Sherlock said, and he was perfectly capable of putting two and two together.

"How did it get there?," he asked.

Sherlock, his hand on the bathroom door handle, froze. "Pardon?"

John got up from the bed and took a step closer to him. "How did you manage to get _dust in places even I wouldn't expect_? From what you said, you went up into the attic to have a look around. I used to play in our attic as a child and all the dust only ever settled on the outer layer of my clothes. How did you get dust anywhere else?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You know my methods, John. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty."

That was true, but by now John also knew him well enough to know when Sherlock was being evasive. "Yes, I know. I've seen you dig around in skips and gutters. What I haven't seen is you taking off your clothes to investigate an attic."

In John's opinion, Sherlock looked a bit like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry. "I-"

But John wasn't in the mood for further evasions, not to mention barefaced lies.

"So I wonder ... what could have happened in between you kissing me senseless in a hallway before running away and you returning an hour later, with dust in places it really couldn't have gotten unless you had at least partially undressed?"

When his friend failed to reply, John took another step closer to him. If Sherlock thought he was going to let this go, he really had another think coming.

Something about John's sudden proximity seemed to shake Sherlock out of his surprise and he drew himself up to his full height, adopting a haughty expression that wouldn't have fooled John even a month into their friendship, let alone after several years.

"Why don't you tell me?," Sherlock suggested, managing to sound utterly dismissive. "Seeing as you seem to have it all figured out."

"I think," John said softly, leaning just a little bit closer and watching Sherlock struggle to remain unmoved, "I think you did the exact same thing I wanted to do. I think you went and had a spectacular wank wishing I had followed you. And I think deep down you wanted me to know because you're good at what you do and you could have hidden every last trace of it if you really didn't want me to find out about it. What should I deduce from that?"

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. He didn't seem to be breathing at all.

"Did I miss something?," John asked, raising one hand and pressing it against the wood of the bathroom door, effectively boxing Sherlock in. He could actually see his friend's pupils dilate at the gesture. "Or would you like me to demonstrate what I think you wish had happened?"

Sherlock's mouth dropped open a little at the suggestion. It seemed like here, at last, John had discovered exactly what Sherlock's area was.

It should have given him pause, perhaps, a moment's surprise or hesitation. Instead, all he felt was puzzle pieces clicking into place and the world finally making sense.

"I wonder," he found himself saying, "why you'd let me get ahead with getting married when you so clearly wish I didn't."

Sherlock swallowed and all the haughtiness fled from his expression, leaving only a bone-crushing sadness. "It's what you want. It's what makes you happy. _She_ makes you happy."

John could hear the agony in his voice now. The unspoken _"Not me"_. It hit him harder than he thought it should.

So he did what he should have done when Sherlock first came back from the dead, what he should have done so much more often no matter the circumstances.

John pulled him close and hugged him, clinging to his mad best friend in the crazy hope that it would somehow make Sherlock understand. He didn't want to let go. He didn't want to get married to someone who didn't feel like home.

So he didn't.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_If only John had taken a page from Sherlock's book and been a little bit more observant, they could have sorted it all right then and there. But he didn't. And instead ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

"Looking at you, I think most of the dust has now left the attic and decided to reassemble into the form of a consulting detective. A very credible impression, too. Can it do deductions?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him but John saw the corner of his mouth twitch in a hidden smile.

"If you say so. I'm taking a shower. Again. I think I've got dust in places even a medical man wouldn't expect."

 


	13. Chapter 13

When Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, towel-drying his hair and still looking rather disgruntled, John didn't waste any time shoving his pajamas at him.

"Here," he said, when Sherlock merely stared at them as if he had never seen such garments before. "Get changed and lie down."

Sherlock's eyes flicked from the pajamas to John's face, then back down, then back up again. He frowned. "Why?"

John blinked, realising how the order might have sounded in the context of what had happened earlier. He shrugged it off. "Because you look dead on your feet. This is a hotel, Sherlock, guests are expected to relax. You look like you haven't slept in a week, probably because you haven't, so I'm ordering you to do so now. This bed is more than big enough for the two of us."

He knew he had a point there and he saw the exact moment Sherlock conceded it.

"I'm not tired."

"Liar."

They stared at one another and John knew he was winning. Sherlock was simply too tired to hold up his end of the stare.

"Fine."

Grudgingly, he accepted the pajamas and returned to the bathroom, reemerging two minutes later. John went to use the bathroom and get changed himself, then returned to find Sherlock already stretched out on his side of the bed.

And wasn't that something worth commenting on? They had been on so many out of town cases by now where seperate rooms had not always been an option that they had sides of the bed now. It was not something they ever talked about. Somehow, they had simply established a routine for the rare nights in which Sherlock slept, either voluntarily or after being bullied into lying down by John. Thanks to his time in the army, John preferred to sleep closer to the door. This was another thing they had never explicitly talked about - Sherlock simply always took the side furthest from the door and left the other for him, apparenly unconcerned with the tiresome 'left or right?' question.

Accordingly, Sherlock was gloomily staring at the ceiling, clearly determined to demonstrate that he was not at all tired and found the very suggestion preposterous.

John ignored him and slid under the heavy covers, sighing happily as he got settled and sank into the pillow. "And no sneaking off tonight," he told Sherlock sternly. "You really do need to sleep, no matter how much you pretend otherwise."

"The places I could sneak to are pretty limited," Sherlock pointed out. "And I'm not keen on investigating the attic again anytime soon."

"If you did, I think we'd be in danger of running out of hot water," John joked. "Then again, there can't possibly be all that much dust left, considering you seem to have dragged it all in here with you."

Sherlock sniffed. "Well, it's not my fault they haven't cleaned up there in decades."

John grinned and reached out to switch off the light. "If you say so. Now go to sleep, yeah? Good night, Sherlock."

He could almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes, but his reply was soft. "Good night, John."

John firmly resisted the inexplicable urge to reach out, find Sherlock's hand under the covers, and squeeze it.

*****

Sherlock lay in the dark and stared fixedly at the ceiling, hyper-aware of every sound John made, every single movement of his body on the mattress. Had he always been this conscious of John's presence? Had it been like that on the few occasions they had shared a bed before? He couldn't remember. All he knew was that he was too scared to move, now that John was in bed with him, for fear that he might do something stupid and unplanned, such as accidentally roll over and press John into the mattress and -

_'Focus!'_

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to concentrate on something else. It wouldn't do to think about it.

But the urge to reach out hung over him like fine mist, coating his skin, sinking right through the pores and into every single cell of his body. He could feel it humming through his veins like electricity and he wondered if his hair was really standing on end or if it merely felt that way.

It would be so easy.

All his reasons for holding back seemed so flimsy and insubstantial.

Here, in the dark, everything seemed possible.

He could just shift a little. Just a little. Turn onto his side, maybe. Move his hand. Accidentally brush John's arm with his elbow. Shift a little more. Turn restlessly until John reached over and pressed a hand to his shoulder or maybe his chest and forced him still.

Sherlock shivered at the thought, feeling his heart rate accelerate.

John, holding him down. John's hand on his skin. John, so close to him in the dark.

Now he really did feel restless. He felt ready to jump out of his own skin, wanted to hurl himself out of the bed and pace the room until all this manic energy subsided and he could think clearly once more.

But John had asked him to sleep, had all but ordered him to do so. Getting up wasn't an option, not while John was clearly still awake. His breathing pattern hadn't even begun to even out yet, it would be a while until he did fall asleep.

Sherlock forced himself to lie absolutely still. He didn't even twitch a muscle.

He would lie here and he would wait until John was asleep and then he would ... he didn't know. He decided to think about that, an exercise in abstract thought before he could get up and do something stupid.

So ... wait until John was asleep. And then? He frowned. This was their second night at the hotel, meaning they had another four ahead of them - and he still had a case to solve, too. No, it wouldn't do to reach out now, to pull John close and whisper his name and destroy everything he held dear for one moment of selfishness. But perhaps... perhaps he could move, later, much later. If he managed to stay awake - he did a quick calculation: 17% chance of that happening - he might be able to shuffle a little closer in the early hours of the morning.

Or maybe he could just fall asleep and hope that his body would naturally gravitate towards John, towards the only source of warmth in this bed, in his life. Wasn't that what always happened in those ridiculous movies John liked to watch? People fell asleep on opposite sides of the bed all the time and woke up basically wrapped around each other. But where did the statistical probability end and the cliché start? Had anyone ever conducted a scientific study on this phenomenon?

Sherlock thought they should have. Someone must have. People were so obsessed with their relationships, surely someone had thought to make people share a bed and see what happened. If only he had internet access here, he could have pulled out his phone and researched it.

Instead, all he could do was lie here in the dark and pretend his heart wasn't set on beating its way out of his chest.

Next to him, he heard John's breathing pattern even out and deepen, and something in the way the mattress dipped suggested that his body had gone lax as he fell asleep.

The sensation was so calming, Sherlock found himself relaxing as well.

*****

John woke in the middle of the night for no apparent reason. One moment he was asleep, the next his eyes flew open and he was wide awake, as if barely a blink had passed between his falling asleep and now.

The room was quiet and almost completely dark, only illuminated by the moonlight comming in through the gap in the curtains. Clearly there was no reason for him to be awake at - he glanced at his phone - 3:23 in the bloody morning. It was too early even to be early.

He turned over with a low groan, intent on closing his eyes and falling asleep again. Instead, he found himself face to face with Sherlock.

Startled, he froze.

Sherlock was lying on his side, facing John, fast asleep. For a moment, John thought his friend had moved closer during the night but then he realised that he himself had rolled into the middle of the bed, taking up more space than was his due.

The sensible thing would be to move away and go back to sleep before Sherlock woke and had time to wonder what John was doing so close to him - a question John had no answer to that wouldn't raise more questions.

So, moving away it was.

But Sherlock looked so young and peaceful. It was the first time in ... well, ever, actually, that John had seen him look like this. Completely relaxed, calm and quiet. Even the faint crease on his forehead that was always present when he was in his mind palace was gone.

He looked young and innocent and so beautiful it made John's heart hurt.

It seemed impossible that these lips had been pressed to his only hours ago, that this was the mouth that had kissed him like the world was ending and, worst of all, that it had all been done for the sake of getting a waiter to back off. He still didn't know whether to be furious, horrified or disappointed.

His hand twitched and he had to force himself to keep still, to keep from reaching out and touching Sherlock's face.

It would be so easy. Just to reach out, to brush his hand along that impossible cheekbone, to watch those iridescent eyes snap open and focus on his face, just to look at him and for once not hide ... to see Sherlock recoil.

John blinked as the vision fell apart.

_'What am I doing?'_ he wondered, despairing.  _'What the hell do I think I'm doing here? I'm getting married in less than a month!"_

He tried to think of Mary, but picturing her smiling face, the love and trust in her eyes, only left a bitter taste in his mouth and made his stomach twist.

He could stop the wedding. Go home, tell Mary he thought it wasn't a good idea after all, that it was too soon. And then what? She'd be heartbroken and end things and he'd move back to Baker Street where Sherlock would be right there all the time, so close and yet so far out of his reach as to be on another planet entirely.

And he loved Mary, he was quite sure of that. He didn't want to see her hurt, didn't want to be the cause of her pain. It wasn't her fault that sometimes, even after all this time, he looked at Sherlock and thought _'Yes'_ . But nothing would ever come off it, Sherlock had made that clear enough years ago and again in recent weeks when he had thrown himself into the preparations for John's wedding with all the zeal he usually reserved for a particularly complex case.

John shoved the thought away and was surprised to find that his body had betrayed him - his hand was hovering over Sherlock's face, just a moment away from touching him after all.

He snatched his hand back before the temptation could prove too strong and carefully rolled back to his own side of the bed. This madness had to end.

And it would - as soon as they got back home, away from this place where there were no reminders of why he couldn't and shouldn't and mustn't.

He fell back asleep an hour later, wishing he could stay here forever.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_.reverof ereh yats dluoc eh gnihsiw ,retal ruoh na peelsa kcab llef eH_

_.t'ntsum dna t'ndluohs dna t'ndluoc eh yhw fo srednimer on erew ereht erehw ecalp siht morf yawa ,emoh kcab tog yeht sa noos sa - dluow ti dnA_

_.dne ot dah ssendam sihT .deb eht fo edis nwo sih ot kcab dellor ylluferac dna gnorts oot evorp dluoc noitatpmet eht erofeb kcab dnah sih dehctans eH_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if John had touched him? What if Sherlock had woken up?_

**> >PLAY<<**

John shoved the thought away and was surprised to find that his body had betrayed him - his hand was hovering over Sherlock's face, just a moment away from touching him after all.

There wasn't the slightest hint of a tremor to his hand. As always, being in close proximity to Sherlock was all it took for John's mental equilibrium to remain steady.

And would it really be such a bad idea? It was the middle of the night and Sherlock had been awake for days on end. He was so fast asleep he probably wouldn't even notice a bomb going off in their room, let alone be woken by John's hand on his cheek.

God, his skin looked so soft. And there was that one errant curl falling into his eyes again. Surely it was tickling him. Surely it would wake him at any moment. John stared at that curl, unable to tear his gaze away. Finally, the temptation became too much and he carefully brushed it away, exhaling shakily as it seemed to wrap around his finger for a moment.

And that was Sherlock's temple under his fingers, soft skin warm to the touch. The ultimate proof that Sherlock was alive. Sometimes, John still found himself struggling with that, experiencing sudden flashbacks to the two years of Sherlock being dead and gone and when that happened John found an excuse, any excuse, to text him or go see him, just to reassure himself that Sherlock was alive to be seen, that he was alive and would text him back. And Sherlock always texted back these days.

But there was no need for that now, not with John's fingertips slowly tracing Sherlock's face from his temple to one of those cheekbones, tracing the familiar features he had spent so much time staring at but never really gotten to touch like this.

He made himself acknowledge it: This was what he was giving up on. For good, this time. Even Sherlock's death hadn't been enough to make him give up, as if some part of him, an instinct buried deep within his subconsciousness, had known it wasn't real and had held on despite everything. And now he was letting go and giving up on purpose. A deliberate attempt to put it all behind him in some vague hope for peace. A shield against the pain if he lost Sherlock again.

It was a bad moment to realise that this, right here, was the most secure and at peace he had ever felt.

He let out a quiet sigh, cupping Sherlock's cheek and strong jawline in his hand.

"What are you doing to me?" The words escaped him in barely a whisper, a question he had been stuck with for longer than he cared to admit finally breaking free.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

He looked a bit bleary, as anyone would when waking up in the middle of the night, and John, frozen where was, could see the moment Sherlock's sleep-addled mind processed the sight of John in front of him and the sensation of John's hand on his cheek.

Sherlock's eyes widened and he blinked rapidly. In the dim light, John could see his pupils adjust and something flickered across that beautiful face, there and gone again in less than a moment.

And then, just as John prepared to snatch his hand away and apologise, spin some half-truth that neither of them would believe, and flee to the bathroom, Sherlock turned his head, just enough to press his cheek more fully into John's palm.

Before John's astonished eyes, he pressed a soft kiss to John's wrist.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was barely more than a breath. "Anything you ask me to."

A noise escaped John's throat but he couldn't even say if it was a laugh or a sob and Sherlock smiled a smile that looked like heartbreak.

"Anything?" John asked.

"Anything."

"Hold me." The words came out unbidden, uncensored.

He licked his lips, searching his mind for an explanation, any explanation, but couldn't come up with anything suitable, could hardly think around the sudden constriction in his chest and the idea that he might lose Sherlock. There was no way he could form words like this.

He didn't have to.

Sherlock shifted closer with hardly any hesitation whatsoever and a moment later they were pressed together from head to toe and Sherlock's arms wrapped around him, holding on tight.

It was only then that John realised his whole body was shaking and he pressed his face to Sherlock's throat, snatching in breath after breath and waiting for the panic to subside.

He hadn't expected to have a panic attack in the middle of the night but here it was and he clung to Sherlock and tried to breathe while he waited for it to ease. There was a low rumbling sound and he focused on that until the words became clear.

"It's okay," Sherlock murmured in his ear. "I've got you. I've got you, John. We're both safe and alive and I've got you. It's all going to be fine..."

He kept talking and John kept breathing and eventually, his heart rate calmed down and his breaths turned into something that couldn't be described as hyperventilation and his body slowly stopped shaking.

"Sorry," he gasped. "I don't know what-"

"Don't apologise," Sherlock said softly. "Don't you ever apologise for this."

John realised he was still clinging to Sherlock but any thoughts of letting go were nipped in the bud when he noticed that Sherlock's grip on him had not loosened by even the smallest fraction. _ 'I've got you'  _ indeed.

"Thank you."

"Any time, John."

Were that Sherlock's lips grazing his temple? John released a shuddering sigh and pressed a little closer.

"Did ..." Sherlock paused, hesitated. "Did I trigger you?"

John shook his head. "Triggered myself, I think. I just ... I was thinking of how I lost you. How I had chosen to lose you all over again. I can't ... I can't do it."

"Ah."

There was a pause as Sherlock processed that. John waited for the apologies, the polite rejection, for Sherlock to distance himself.

"I must confess to a similar fear," Sherlock whispered. "I've got this clock in my head, inevitably ticking down, down, down, until you speak your vows and I lose you for good. I ... I can't do it, either, John."

John laughed a little, even as he felt tears sting his eyes. It was fine. It was dark and it was just Sherlock. He was allowed this.

"Maybe... maybe we just shouldn't let go, then. Maybe we should just hold on to each other like this and fuck the rest of the world."

Sherlock's hands tightened around him. "John, I don't want to be crass but noble as your suggestion is, I'd much rather you fucked  _ me _ instead."

John stared at him, delightfully shocked by this newly discovered side to his friend. He licked his lips. "I think ... I think that can be arranged."

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_It might have ended there. If John had been just a little braver and if Sherlock hadn't slept quite so deeply. But he wasn't and he did and so..._

**> >PLAY<<**

He snatched his hand back before the temptation could prove too strong and carefully rolled back to his own side of the bed. This madness had to end.

And it would - as soon as they got back home, away from this place where there were no reminders of why he couldn't and shouldn't and mustn't.

He fell back asleep an hour later, wishing he could stay here forever.

*****

Sherlock woke to pale sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains.

Slowly, carefully, as if the movement could somehow wake his sleeping companion, he cracked open one eye.

His first reaction was surprise - had he really slept through the night? It appeared so, and he was honestly amazed. That hadn't happened to him in ages.

His second reaction was disappointment. John was still asleep, very much on his own side of the bed.

Sherlock sat up and stared at the expanse of mattress between them accusingly. How was this possible? Pure and simple narrative causality should have made them end up pressed together! This was what always happened, after all. He felt let down by the universe itself.

A quick glance at the clock on the nightstand told him it was still too early to wake up John without getting a muffled, disapproving grunt in response, so he regretfully swung his legs out of the bed and got up. It was tempting to remain wrapped in the warmth of the blankets, but the room felt unnaturally chilly without the almost expected weight of John's body pressed close to his own. What joy he would have derived from staying in bed was greatly reduced by the insurmountable distance between them.

Instead, Sherlock got dressed and snuck out of the room as quietly as possible, leaving John to sleep in.

He would spoil John this morning. He would let him sleep in and in the meantime Sherlock was going to organise food and surprise John with breakfast in bed. This, he knew, was another thing people did for those they cared about. Sooner or later, even John would no longer be able to remain oblivious in the face of all the evidence Sherlock was piling up in front of him without actually saying a word that might betray him. Until then, deniability was key.

Nodding to himself, he hurried down the stairs and to the kitchens, knowing full well that Mrs Hendriksen was bound to be up and about already, preparing everything for breakfast.

He was right about that and the cook gave him a smile when he walked in. The maid who had told him about the attic the previous evening, apparently delegated to being a kitchen maid in the early hours of the day, looked startled at his appearance, but didn't comment.

"Emma, take these and put one on each of the tables in the dining hall, will you?" Mrs Hendriksen handed her a basket full of what looked like small vases with freshly cut flowers.

The maid, Emma, hurried away, leaving Sherlock alone with the cook.

"Good morning," he greeted her, putting on his brightest smile.

"Good morning," she replied, smiling back. "You're up early."

He shrugged. "I've never been one for sleeping in, but I was hoping you could help me with something."

She didn't stop counting out cutlery for the guests, but by the way she inclined her head he knew she was listening.

"I want to surprise John with breakfast in bed. He hasn't had a proper holiday in years and I'm afraid that I cause him undue stress more often than not, so I thought ..." He trailed off, not sure how to express what it was that he had been thinking.

Mrs Hendriksen seemed to understand anyway. "That's very thoughtful of you," she told him and he felt something in his chest relax a little. It was hard to tell what John might appreciate, but if a completely ordinary person who had been happily married for over three decades approved, it couldn't be a bad idea.

She watched him shrewdly as she started arranging plates and cups and cutlery on a tray. "Have you told him yet?"

Sherlock blinked. "Pardon me?"

"Don't play stupid with me, young man," she chided him. "I'm nae blind, you know? None of the others may have noticed, but I can see a hopeless case when he's right in front of me. You looked at him like a right mooncalf throughout our entire conversation yesterday. Well, every time you were sure he wouldnae notice, anyway."

Sherlock found himself actually shuffling his feet and glanced around uneasily; for some silly reason he worried that John might hear her. "No. I haven't told him anything."

"That's what I thought. Perhaps you should give it a try, though. Honesty's important, I'm sure he'll appreciate you speaking up."

He snorted and shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Mrs Hendriksen. When we get back, I've got to continue organising his wedding."

He had no idea why he had even admitted as much, and he wished he hadn't said a word at all when he saw the look of heartfelt pity on her face. "I'm sorry, lad."

Sherlock wondered if his smile was as sad as he felt. "Me too."

"Here you go. Keep yer head high, perhaps he'll change his mind once he realises what he's missing out on," the cook told him as she pressed the tray into his hands. "You've got a kettle up in the room, so I just gave you an assortment of tea bags. Is there anything else he particularly likes?"

"Jam," Sherlock said instantly. "Raspberry."

She added two packets to the tray, along with a basket of bread rolls and a handful of slices of toast, some butter and ham.

"You either tell him or you don't," she said. "But it's not fair to either of you if you keep toeing the line."

"I'll keep that in mind," he assured her, leaving unsaid that he had no idea how to stop.

"Good luck." Her voice was soft but he still heard her as he left the kitchen, and their conversation still replayed in his head as he let himself back into his and John's room to find John still fast asleep.

The idea of kissing him awake shyly suggested itself and Sherlock sighed, shoving the thought away.

_'Ah, John, I wish I was that brave.'_

 


	14. Chapter 14

John woke to the scent of fresh green tea and the quiet clink of porcelain on porcelain.

He reluctantly opened one eye, groaning lowly to announce to the world at large that he did not particularly cherish waking up at this time and would like to sleep a little longer.

"Good morning, John!"

He blinked. Sherlock never wished him a good morning in that tone of voice. Never that cheerful and nervous at the same time.

Grumbling something unintelligible, he opened his other eye as well. Sherlock was standing not two feet away, looking down at him with a disturbingly reassuring smile, the one he only put on for special occasions, like when he wanted to put John at ease before springing some insane scheme or uncomfortable piece of information on him.

"All right, what have you done?" he asked groggily, debating whether pulling the covers over his head and going back to sleep would suffice as an avoidance technique.

"I brought you breakfast." Something in Sherlock's voice reminded him of a little kid. A very proud one.

"Why?"

"It's morning," Sherlock informed him. "This is the usual time for people to consume breakfast." He said it like a piece of knowledge learned in a wildlife documentary.

"So it is," John agreed. "Doesn't tell me why you, of all people, brought me breakfast. What have you done and how angry am I going to be?"

Sherlock actually looked a little hurt. "I haven't done anything, John, I swear. I slept, just as you asked me to, and when I woke up, I decided to go and bring you breakfast in bed. People like having breakfast in bed, don't they?"

John blinked and raised his head, then decided to wake up properly and sat up fully. "Really?"

"Well, if you don't know, I certainly don't," Sherlock pointed out. "I've never had breakfast in bed."

John gaped at him, then shook his head hastily. "No, no, I mean ... you really brought me breakfast? Just because?"

"Yes. I thought we had already established that. Really, John, your attention span is abysmal in the mornings."

He wanted to protest that it wasn't, but Sherlock had moved away from the bed and returned a moment later with a tray which he promptly deposited on John's legs.

John stared at it. There was a cup of tea and when he looked around he spotted the kettle on the desk in the corner with two tea bag tags dangling out of it. There were bread rolls (still warm) and slices of toast and butter and his favourite jam and a packet of honey and Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet next to the bed, looking terribly excited about it all.

"Do you like it?"

"It's, uh ... wow." He felt something warm slide down his throat and settle in his stomach, and for a moment wondered if he had absent-mindedly drunk a sip of tea. "This is really thoughtful of you, Sherlock. Thank you."

Sherlock beamed. "I thought, since this is supposed to be a holiday for you, you might like having breakfast without needing to get dressed first."

John's mind flashed back to countless mornings spent in their pyjamas in Baker Street, Sherlock in his dressing gown with his hair still ruffled from sleep or a sleepless night, and John lazing about until noon before finally gathering the energy to get dressed. He wondered if Sherlock had remembered the same thing. He probably had. He wondered if Sherlock missed these mornings, too. He probably didn't.

"I really do," he confirmed, smiling at his friend. "Thank you."

Sherlock looked so pleased with himself, it made John's heart squeeze affectionately.

He looked down at the tray. "Where is yours?"

Sherlock blinked owlishly. "Huh?"

"This tray only has breakfast for one person on it," John said slowly, frowning. "One plate, one cup. One set of cutlery. Where is yours?"

Sherlock looked puzzled. "I ... forgot." He blinked again, his gaze sliding to the side. "I actually didn't expect you to want me to share it with you."

Now it was John's turn to be surprised. "Why the hell wouldn't I? I'm always nagging you to eat more, aren't I?"

A shrug. "I didn't think that extended to wanting to have breakfast in bed with me."

John had the sudden realisation that he had walked into a conversational minefield. "Oh."

What John wanted to say was this: _'Yes, of course I want to have breakfast with you. I don't care where, so long as you're here. But you don't want that and I'm not going to torture myself by having breakfast in bed like it's the Morning After when there was no Night Before.'_

What John decided to say was: "Yeah, you're right, that might be a bit weird. Even by our standards."

And Sherlock nodded and turned around and fetched more tea and the moment was gone.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

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_".hO" .dleifenim lanoitasrevnoc a otni deklaw dah eh taht noitasilaer neddus eht dah nhoJ_

_".em htiw deb ni tsafkaerb evah ot gnitnaw ot dednetxe taht kniht t'ndid I" .gurhs A_

_"?I t'nera ,erom tae ot uoy gniggan syawla m'I ?I t'ndluow lleh eht yhW" .desirprus eb ot nrut s'nhoJ saw ti woN_

_".uoy htiw ti erahs ot em tnaw ot uoy tcepxe t'ndid yllautca I" .edis eht ot gnidils ezag sih ,niaga deknilb eH ".togrof ... I" .delzzup dekool kcolrehS_

**> >PAUSE<<**

But what if John had asked Sherlock to have breakfast with him?

**> >PLAY<<**

A shrug. "I didn't think that extended to wanting to have breakfast in bed with me."

John had the sudden realisation that he had walked into a conversational minefield. "Oh."

He considered that for a moment. "Why the hell not? We've had breakfast in our pyjamas before. In fact, we've had breakfast with you  _ wearing  _ your bed before. At least this time we'll be warm and comfortable."

"There's only one plate and cup," Sherlock reminded him.

"Take the other cup from next to the kettle," John said, pointing towards the sideboard that held the electric kettle and a bunch of tea bags. "And don't bother with a plate. We can share. There's certainly enough food for two on here and you need to eat something."

Sherlock, looking a little shell-shocked, obediently retrieved the cup and saucer and handed them to John.

"Now come in here and make yourself comfortable," John said, riding a strange wave of giving zero fucks and enjoying every moment of it.

To his credit, Sherlock barely hesitated before taking off his shoes and doing as he was told, apparently willing to roll with whatever John was doing. John wished he knew what it was he was doing but all he knew was that the idea of not having Sherlock with him right at this moment was wrong on every conceivable level.

He lifted the tray and held it up while he waited for Sherlock to get settled, then promptly deposited it in his lap. "There. Do your statue impression for a bit while I pour you a cuppa, will you?"

"My what?"

"Your statue impression," John repeated. "You know, that thing you do where you completely freeze and don't move a finger while you're in your Mind Palace?"

"I wasn't aware I was doing that," Sherlock said.

"Liar. Just ... do it."

Sherlock froze, still strangely obedient, as if he didn't quite trust this assertive, unbothered by social norms version of John.

That was fair, John thought. He didn't quite trust himself, either.

He poured Sherlock a cup of tea, added the prerequisite two sugars, and started buttering a bread roll for him. "Jam?"

Sherlock cleared his throat before speaking. "Please."

John liberally coated the roll in jam and handed it to Sherlock before taking the tray from him and depositing it back on his own legs so he could make his own breakfast.

"This is great," he commented. "We should do this more often."

"You live in a different part of London, John," Sherlock pointed out.

John paused. "Oh. Yeah. I forgot."

And he had. It seemed so normal to be with Sherlock like this, he had honestly forgotten this was not how his life usually went.

"Well, we should have done it more often, then."

"Too late for that now," Sherlock said, his voice quiet. John thought he could hear a note of regret.

"It's hardly that," John found himself replying. "We still have a couple of days left here."

"It's too late for a lot of things," Sherlock said softly. Yes, that was definitely regret there. And sadness.

John turned his head to shoot him a glance and found he couldn't look away. God, how had he never noticed just how beautiful Sherlock's eyes were? And, come to think of that, how expressive? The quiet sadness was there, too.

John wished he could get it out of there, replace it with joy and laughter. It seemed strangely important all of a sudden.

And perhaps it would make that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach go away, too.

"I don't think it's too late," he whispered. "We're here, aren't we? We can do anything we want."

"You don't have any idea what I want," Sherlock replied.

John shook his head, a light finally dawning. "I think I have a pretty good idea," he retorted. "Such a lucky coincidence because I can't help but want the same thing."

Sherlock stared back at him and his throat clicked as he swallowed. "I'm not sure you do."

"I want to never get out of this bed," John said softly. "I want to stay right here with you and if I can't do that I want to spend every day looking forward to being here with you at night."

Sherlock was still staring but now his eyes looked a bit shiny. "John..."

"That was what you wanted to say, wasn't it?" John asked. "It's what I've been wanting to say, too."

"But you..."

"I know. I don't think I know my own mind very well sometimes," John confessed quietly. "But I know this much, at least."

Sherlock made a choked noise. "John..."

But John wasn't finished. "I look at you and I see everything I want in this world and I don't understand why I ever thought I could be happy with anything less."

He wanted to say more but never got around to it because Sherlock lunged at him.

The breakfast tray tipped to the side, spilling tea everywhere. Neither of them cared - they were otherwise occupied.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_If only John had been brave enough to speak his mind, this was what could have happened. But he didn't. And instead ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

What John decided to say was: "Yeah, you're right, that might be a bit weird. Even by our standards."

And Sherlock nodded and turned around and fetched the tea and the moment was gone.

*****

Sherlock pretended to be busy rereading his case notes in his little notebook while he waited for John to finish his breakfast. He was glad that John knew he sometimes only held the notes in his hands for something to look at while sorting through the data in his mind palace, otherwise John surely would have inquired why he never turned the page. In reality, he was too busy trying to sort out his mixed feelings about John's reaction to being presented with breakfast in bed.

Clearly he had liked the idea and been very pleased with the effort Sherlock had gone to. Just as clearly, he had immediately assumed Sherlock would be joining him. And apparently that idea hadn't sat well with him. Too weird even by their standards, indeed!

Sherlock grimaced.

Though he felt the sting of yet another rejection, unintentional as it might have been, he couldn't help but feel a pang of relief as well. This was already becoming increasingly difficult to deal with; the last thing he needed was a memory of breakfast in bed with John. A man could drown in his own mind with a smile on his face if this was the vision that pulled him under.

He stared sightlessly at the pages of his notebook, listening to the clatter of John's spoon against the rim of his tea cup, and pondered mankind's ability to torture oneself in one's own mind more effectively than any physical instrument devised by humans ever could.

Finally, John finished the last dregs of his tea and put the tray aside.

"Thank you again for this, Sherlock. That was really quite good."

Sherlock made a non-committal hum to indicate that he was vaguely listening but mostly immersed in his mind. That was easy enough, and John bought it without question.

"All right. I'm going to get dressed and then you can tell me what we're going to do next in this investigation. I feel like we haven't made any progress at all yet."

He disappeared into the bathroom and Sherlock frowned at his notes. No progress? On the contrary, he was reasonably sure that he was halfway to solving this case already. Considering he wasn't trying all that hard and had spent more time and mental energy on John than the investigation, he thought it was quite a lot of progress. This was only their third day at the hotel, after all.

It seemed impossible that so little time had passed when so much had happened already.

_ 'So much, and all for naught'  _ he thought sadly. _ 'Ordinary minds are so unreliable, he'll have forgotten the exact words of most of our conversations and the precise details of what we did and where in just a couple of weeks.' _

And as he heard John hum to himself in the bathroom, happy as can be, he felt a burning envy. What he wouldn't give to forget.

And what he wouldn't do to regain every memory of this if it was taken away from him.

No, he decided. He would rather remember every excruciating second of this agony than live the hollow life he would have left without it. Without John.

"Ready?"

He almost jumped out of his skin in surprise at the sound of John's voice. The notebook slipped from his fingers and he barely managed to catch it with an undignified scramble.

"Yes."

He didn't even know what he was supposed to be ready for, but it didn't really matter. So long as John was still with him, Sherlock thought he was ready for absolutely anything.

John didn't seem to notice his distraction. He simply smiled at him and moved to the door, clearly expecting him to come along. Sherlock was left with no other option but to follow him.

"Got a specific plan for what we should do next?" John asked as they walked towards the stairs.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'd like to get some more information about the other guests, see if there is something about them we don't know yet."

"You mean something you don't know," John corrected him, sounding amused. "I obviously don't know anything but what you have told me, which by the way hasn't been much."

"I told you all I knew about them when we first saw them," Sherlock defended himself.

"Yes, and you can't claim you haven't figured out anything new about them since then," John said. "Just remember that you don't always have to keep everything to yourself, okay?"

_ 'If you knew half the things I'm keeping to myself, you'd never have agreed to come here with me,' _ Sherlock thought.

He sighed. "Yes, John."

"Good."

They descended the rest of the stairs in silence but froze on the lowest steps at the sound of raised voices in the hall.

"Is that-?" John began.

"The twins," Sherlock confirmed quietly. "Shall we go and see what is going on?"

"I believe that was the point of coming downstairs in the first place," John pointed out. There was a joyful spark in his eye that only appeared when he was expecting a fight.

They followed the voices until they reached the lounge, where Cecilia and Olivia Bloomsberg were screeching at each other across a five foot distance, hands balled into fists and hair ascew. Their voices were so high it was almost impossible to tell what they were actually accusing one another of.

Looking around the room, Sherlock saw most of the other guests assembled off to the side, watching the spectacle with a mixture of annoyance and interest. Some of them had clearly been drawn away from their breakfast by the argument. Certainly the Walczaks looked like they regretted leaving their coffee behind.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" a low voice said to his left and Sherlock turned to see Patrick Wiltshire leaning against the wall right next to the door, idly watching the sisters.

"What are they screaming about?" Sherlock asked, deciding to play dumb to have his theory confirmed.

"James, of course," Patrick said, shrugging. "I only got the gist of it, but apparently each thinks the other slept with him although they had agreed to share. I'm honestly not sure how they came up with that. I know for a fact that he has no interest in either of them."

"Because he told you?" John asked, moving a little closer to Sherlock to keep their conversation quiet.

Patrick shook his head. "No. Because he's here for me."

A second glance around the room showed that James Marquis was nowhere to be seen, which probably wasn't all that surprising, considering the circumstances.

"What do you mean, he's here for you?" John asked, apparently not having caught on.

"He means James is here to win back his lover, obviously," Sherlock told him, rollling his eyes and pretending to be perfectly composed. This hit a little bit too close to home.

Patrick smiled sadly. "I broke things off because I thought he didn't appreciate me. He was always working so much ... but he dropped everything, took a long holiday, and followed me here to convince me to take him back."

John, being the romantic that he was, couldn't help but ask: "And will you? Take him back?"

The man shrugged. "Looks like no matter how far you go, you can't outrun your feelings."

Sherlock decided it was time to get away and excused himself. There was still a receptionist to question and anything was better than standing here, watching John honestly congratulating Patrick and wishing him good luck in fixing his relationship with the man he loved. There was only so much he could take.

*****

Sherlock turned the corner and paused for a moment to make sure John wasn't following him before moving further away. He needed a bit of distance, a little time to regain his equilibrium. Too much had happened in the past twenty-four hours for him to make any sense of. He was reasonably certain that John was only one small misstep on Sherlock's part away from figuring it out and he didn't know if he was ready for that yet - or if he ever would be.

John wasn't usually this thickheaded unless he was purposefully trying to be. Perhaps his willful obliviousness was just that - willful, intentional. A conscious refusal to see what was right before his eyes for the simple reason that he did not wish to.

That was fair enough, Sherlock thought. Perhaps this would make it easier for both of them.

He turned a corner and found himself by the reception, his feet having carried him there while his mind was occupied. Mr Hendriksen manned the counter, though for what purpose Sherlock could not tell. There were no guests checking in or out and for a hotel of this size the daily paperwork was likely of the volume DI Lestrade could only dream about.

"Ah, Mr Hendriksen," he said, putting on what he hoped was a convivial smile. "Just the man I was looking for!"

"I am?" the old man asked, smiling. "Still trying to find out more about poor Freddy's death, are you? My wife said you might come to talk to me."

Sherlock wasn't surprised to hear that. "Your wife is a clever woman," he said. "I was hoping you could tell me more about Freddy and the other guests."

"I don't see what any of the other guests have to do with it," Mr Hendriksen said.

Sherlock leaned against the counter and lowered his voice. "Come now. You and I both know that this was an inside job. The police may think this is related to the food thefts you have been experiencing, but what do they know? I doubt they even bothered taking proper statements from everyone. When was the last time you had a murder in this area?"

"Oh, some fifty years ago, I reckon," Mr Hendriksen mused.

"Well before any of the current officers were with the force, or even born, then," Sherlock said. "Just between ourselves, how likely do you think they are to catch anyone?"

Mr Hendriksen sighed. "You don't give up, I see. Very well. Come to the back room with me. No sense having this chat where anyone might overhear and we can at least sit down so I can rest these old bones for a while."

Sherlock stepped around the reception desk and followed him into the back room slash office. It was a small room, made even smaller by the filing cabinets and shelves that took up every wall and the rickety desk set up in the middle of the half-heartedly organised chaos of papers, old cups of tea long gone cold and various tools.

While Mr Hendriksen busied himself with the electric kettle on one of the hip-high filing cabinets, Sherlock took a seat on a chair that looked as though it had been chisseled out of a single piece of wood by a blind rheumatic carpenter.

He waited for the older man to safely deposit the tea tray on the desk and sit down himself before he spoke.

"Now tell me everything."

"About what?"

"The victim. The guests. Let's start with the victim. I heard he recently came into some money."

Mr Hendriksen nodded. "Yes, although heaven knows where he got it from. This is a small hotel and although we have a lot of regular guests and are a sort of insider tip with people who want a quiet getaway, there is not so much money to go around for us to have lavish salaries."

"I thought not," Sherlock murmured. "And I assume most of the profits go into building maintenance."

"We try to save where we can and I do most of the smaller jobs myself. I trained as a plumber when I was a lad but I've picked up the odd bit of carpentry and electrical engineering here and there. You can't really avoid it in this profession."

"Freddy was your apprentice?" Sherlock prompted him.

"I guess you could say that. His official job description was concierge but in a hotel of this size there's only so much work for a concierge, so he did all sorts of odd jobs as well and I've been teaching him, showing him the ropes. The plan was for him to take over once I go into retirement." He smiled. "My wife and I have a beautiful little cottage already picked out."

Sherlock managed not to flinch or give any other sign of discomfort at the topic. His own thoughts on retirement were still fresh in his mind and he didn't want to dwell on them now.  _ 'Focus on the case, man!' _

"Was he a good apprentice?"

"Well, he wasn't the fastest learner but he was very thorough and reliable. You could depend on him to get a job done once you gave him a task, so long as you didn't expect it to happen immediately. He had an aptitude for anything electrical, so I had him check the old wiring under the attic floorboards - the lights haven't flickered once since he's had a go at them."

"When would you say this was?"

"Oh, about two or three months ago," Mr Hendriksen said. "Yes, it must have been, because I remember we had to brush the snow off the attic window so he could get enough light up there."

"And you don't recall him having any enemies?"

"None. He was a good lad, always friendly, always happy to chat for a bit or lend a hand if you needed it. Mr and Mrs Walczak have been regulars here for nigh on thirty years and they said they've never seen a nicer or more helpful concierge than him. They always tipped very generously, though not so much in recent years, and it was never enough for him to afford the kind of stuff he had before he died. What does a boy like him want with an expensive watch, I ask you?"

"Show off, probably," Sherlock said. "Unless he meant to fence it. I heard he also got an engagement ring for his girlfriend. Do you know of anyone who would have disapproved of them getting married?"

"I never heard a word against them. His parents weren't very invested in him, if you want the long and short of it, and hers only cared about whether he treated her right. They even had him over for dinner several times after she left to be an au-pair. Didn't want him to feel so alone, I suppose."

"Or go looking for another girl," Sherlock suggested, thinking of the many girlfriends John had dragged through the flat while they had still lived together.

Mr Hendriksen shook his head. "Nah, he wasn't the type, really. He'd go out for a pint or two with his friends but never any other girls. Head over heels for Angeline, he was."

Sherlock frowned. It was nothing he hadn't expected but all of it was just so boring, so painfully ordinary. Was it really possible that the only interesting thing the victim had ever done was get stabbed to death?

He wished he had the crime scene pictures with him but if anyone saw him with them, he might as well be wearing a police uniform.

There was nothing he could do right now except hope for John to say or do something that would make everything click into place, the way it so frequently did.

Realising he hadn't spoken in a while, he reached for the cup of tea Mr Hendriksen had placed in front of him, downed its now lukewarm contents in one go and stood.

"Thank you very much for your help, Mr Hendriksen."

"Not at all, not at all. Do come for tea again whenver you like - I so rarely get to really talk to our guests for any length of time."

Sherlock nodded vaguely and left, well aware that he was extremely unlikely to have another conversation with the old man unless he, against all logic and reason, turned out to be the killer.

He walked out of the little back room deep in thought and decidedly unwilling to rejoin the other guests in the common room.

Almost without consciously deciding to do so, he allowed his feet to carry him outside and into the peaceful wilderness of the hills surrounding the hotel.

He knew John would find him sooner or later - he always did. But for now, Sherlock wanted a bit of quiet, some time to really think about the case instead of John. If he hadn't been so incredibly distracted ever since their arrival here, he probably would have solved this murder days ago.

He strolled up a hill, down the other side and up the next one, keeping his pace leisurely and his eyes on the blue sky and barren landscape.

There was an odd sort of beauty to it, a peaceful quality to the air, brought on by the complete lack of buildings, vehicles and people. It was blessedly quiet and Sherlock felt that, for the first time in ages, he could breathe deeply without being assaulted by a myriard of smells and sounds that made his brain tie itself in knots trying to decipher them all.

He loved London and could not imagine living anywhere else right now, not when there was still so much work to do and so many crimes to solve. But one day, when he was no longer physically capable of chasing after criminals, he knew it would become a kind of torture to see and hear and know all these clues and not be able to act on them. Best to remove himself from the equation, live somewhere quiet and peaceful.

Though he would probably find himself a place further south, down in Sussex where the weather was milder and he could keep bees, give himself something to do.

He reached the top of the hill and found a suitable rock to sit on, leaning his back against a slightly taller bolder as he stared out across the land.

Now then, about this case ...

He had an unassuming young man who had been stabbed rather viciously outside the back door. He had evidence that the young man had somehow come into some significant money, though no one seemed to know how. He had a collection of hotel guests and staff who, by all appearances, were either too self-absorbed or too stupid or too innocent to have committed the murder. And he had only a couple of days left to uncover the truth while keeping his own truth concealed under any circumstances.

Frowning, he shoved the ticking countdown in his head away. Now was not the time. Solve the murder, then worry about everything else.

So, who might conceivably be the killer?

The girlfriend was out - being on the other side of the world was a splendid alibi. Neither Arthur nor Eliza Channing made a feasible killer - they were so wrapped up in their own happiness, Sherlock doubted they would have noticed the killer walking past them with the bloody knife still in his or her hand, let alone commit the crime themselves. James Marquis probably had it in him to murder someone but his only plausible motive would have been jealousy over Patrick. The victim had apparently told everyone who couldn't run away fast enough about his plan to propose to his girlfriend. Another motive gone, then.

Could an outsider have done it? It had rained the day before the murder and there had been no new tyre tracks anywhere around the house according to the police reports. But someone could still have come up from the closest village to kill the young man, perhaps to prevent the proposal and eventual wedding from happening.

Well there was a sentiment he could relate to rather too well.

Sherlock shook his head.

No. To cause John such pain would be unforgiveable. But just because he felt that way didn't mean that other people in the same situation would agree. There was always someone who thought that removing the competition would make the object of their affection fall in love with them by default, as if sentiment was something that could be controlled so easily. If that were the case, Sherlock would have gotten rid of his long ago. Perhaps he would have given it all to Mary so she would love John the way he deserved to be loved.

He took a deep, shuddering breath.

This wasn't helping. It wasn't helping at all.

So ... someone coming from the outside was possible, if unlikely. It was a two hour walk from here to the closest village, at least according to the hiking maps he had found in their room.

Two hours was quite far to walk in the dark when the ground was slippery with mud. Someone would have seen a muddy person walking about in the early hours while they were out feeding the cows or whatever it was people in the country did that required them getting up at the crack of dawn. They would have heard about the murder hours later and reported it.

No, unless they had parked their car away from the hotel and walked the rest of the way, an outsider was unlikely. They would have needed to get Frederick out or at least down into the kitchen first, gotten the knife from there and killed him. It didn't fit an outsider. Someone so intent on murder they were willing to walk through the mud and rain in the middle of the night would bring a weapon along instead of hoping they would be able to find one there.

It simply didn't make any sense. Sherlock hated things that didn't make sense.

He knew it would all clear up eventually. Quite likely John would show up and make an offhanded comment and suddenly everything would coalesce into a well-rounded picture as it always did.

In the meantime, he would have to struggle along without John.

_ 'Best get used to that' _ he thought.  _ 'John won't be around to help with cases for much longer.' _

He shoved that thought aside, too.

 


	15. Chapter 15

"There you are," John gasped, bending forward and bracing his hands on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath. "I almost didn't see you brooding here."

"I'm not brooding," Sherlock said. He hadn't turned around or given any other indication that he had noticed John's approach but he certainly didn't seem surprised at his presence.

John took another deep breath, straightened and sat down next to Sherlock on the sun-warmed rock.

He sighed. Green hills stretched all around them, tall grass swaying gently in the soft breeze. Wildflowers and gorse bushes with bright yellow blooms provided spots of colour. In the distance, he could just about make out two people walking.

"Nice view."

Sherlock made a non-committal noise.

"Still brooding, huh?" John asked, nudging him with his elbow.

"I'm not brooding," Sherlock said again, sighing. "I was thinking about the case."

"And you couldn't do that inside the hotel?"

"Sometimes, a bit of distance can be helpful," Sherlock said, shrugging. "Puts things into perspective."

"Hm, and I'm sure it had nothing to do with you missing London and hating to be cooped up inside one house with so many other people for several days," John mused.

Sherlock blinked. It didn't seem to have occured to him until John said it out loud but he could see that he was right anyway.

"Ha. Yes, that as well. I'm surprised you noticed."

John snorted. "Give me some credit, will you? After all this time, I'd be a bad friend indeed if I didn't notice when you get a spell of cabin fever."

"You could never be a bad friend, John," Sherlock said, still staring out across the landscape. "Not to me, at least, because I am sure we can both agree that you have drawn the short straw in this friendship."

"Do you know, I don't think so," John told him, shaking his head. "Sure, you're a bit mad sometimes and you can be a right arse when you delete other people's feelings but I get stroppy and snappish and I don't discriminate when it comes to who gets to suffer the results."

Sherlock snorted. "You're unusually hard on yourself, John."

"I guess distance gives you a bit of perspective," John said, mimicking his earlier words.

Sherlock turned his head to glance at him, looking surprised and a bit weary. "And this new perspective tells you to beat yourself up over your perceived shortcomings as a person?"

John shrugged. "I suppose. I'm getting married in less than a month. I just ... want to be a good husband. I want to be a person my wife likes being married to."

Sherlock looked away again and bit his lip. There was an odd expression on his face that John couldn't quite place.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. "John, any woman would be unbelievably lucky to call you her husband. If, against all reason, Mary is not aware of her good fortune yet, I am sure you will be able to convince her of it in no time at all."

John blinked and turned his head to survey the landscape, hoping that Sherlock wouldn't turn to look at him just now. It was rare to get such a genuine compliment from him and there was something about it that made John want to tell him all the reasons why he thought he couldn't be a good enough husband. But how on earth could he ever hope to explain to Sherlock that he feared he didn't love his future wife enough because he was too busy thinking about his best friend instead?

No, there were just some things that could not be said. Not if he wanted this friendship that meant so much to him - and clearly to Sherlock as well - to continue.

"Have you made any progress with the case?" he asked, wincing at the obvious change in topic.

Sherlock frowned but let it go. "I'm not sure. I talked to Mr Hendriksen about the victim but I'm not certain any of it will be helpful. He isn't the most observant man."

John snorted. "Yes, well, compared to you no one is."

"Mycroft would resent that," Sherlock said, smiling.

John grinned at him. "It has of course always been my goal in life to gain Mycroft's high opinion. Such a shame to hear that it is not meant to be."

"I am sure he would be heartbroken to learn of it." Sherlock grinned back at him. "I shall enjoy telling him."

"We all need memories we can treasure," John said. "And winding up your brother is just too much fun to not do it."

"Don't I know it," Sherlock agreed. "What else is he good for anyw-"

He broke off and his eyes got that distant look in them that John had come to know well. "Yes?"

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. And then, a bit louder: "Oh!"

"What is it?"

Sherlock had jumped up and looked ready to fling himself down the hill just for something to do with the sudden burst of energy his epiphany had given him. John found himself reaching out and grabbing Sherlock's arm. Sometimes, the fear still sizzled down his spine and made his heart stutter.

He pulled Sherlock back gently, even though he knew that the worst Sherlock could do on this hill was roll down it like a child on a sugar rush and get his clothes dirty.

"Sherlock?"

"John, you are _brilliant_!," Sherlock exclaimed, whirling around and grabbing John's face in both hands. "Absolutely ingenious!"

For a moment, John thought Sherlock would kiss him out of sheer enthusiasm, but then Sherlock let go to leap around the hilltop a bit more. John tried not to feel disappointed.

"What did I do?"

"Treasure, John! Everyone needs something they can treasure!"

"Ye-es?" he drawled, not sure where this was going.

"There was a treasure here," Sherlock said, pointing at the hotel. "Our victim found it. That's how he got the money, how he was able to suddenly afford an expensive watch and an engagement ring. He found a treasure."

John gaped at him. "So it must have been hidden for some time then, yes? How is that even possible? Someone would have found it much sooner."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not if it was hidden well enough. Come on, I want to check something."

He grabbed John by the hand and dragged him down the hill and back towards their hotel.

His hand was large and warm, his fingers slotting easily between John's, and he didn't seem to notice he had done it. John knew he should probably let go but he couldn't bring himself to. At this point, he would do anything just to hold on to Sherlock even a little while longer.

*****

"There," Sherlock said, shoving open the attic door and pulling John inside before closing the door behind them. It wouldn't do to be overheard now. Several of the other guests had seen them barging into the building and watched Sherlock drag John up the stairs by the hand, obviously in a rush. It wasn't difficult to guess what they all thought they were up to, so they had bought themselves at least an hour of uninterrupted time before someone would come looking for them. Sherlock clearly didn't intend to need that long.

"It's an attic," John said and sneezed. "A very dusty attic. Gosh, I can see why you looked the way you did after you were up here, investigating."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, yes. A lot of dust, hardly disturbed. I noticed there was less dust over there but Mr Hendriksen told me that the victim was up here about three months ago, fixing the wiring."

"The wiring?"

"It's under the floor boards," Sherlock said, letting go of John's hand and carefully maneouvering around the old furniture, piles of wooden planks and replacement roof tiles that always seemed to find their way into attics.

John flexed his hand, which suddenly felt quite cold and empty, and followed him.

Sherlock quickly found the area that indeed showed less dust than the rest and started knocking on the boards until he found a place that sounded hollow.

"Here, help me with this."

John crouched down next to him and helped him pull the boards aside. They had only been put down loosely, just enough to cover the hole where two of the supporting beams below did not quite meet up, creating a nice little hiding place that was just big enough for, say, a cash box to fit into. There was a corresponding outline in the dust. They could see some brand new wiring running alongside it.

Sherlock turned to John, grinning triumphantly. "See?"

"Amazing," John breathed. "So someone found out about the hidden money and killed him to get it?"

"To get it back," Sherlock corrected. "I think whoever stashed the money here - if it was money instead of something of similar worth - realised he had found it and killed him either for revenge or to get it back. Probably both, once they realised he had already spent most of it."

"Brilliant," John said, beaming at him. "So who was it, then? Mr Hendriksen? He and his wife work here, either one of them could have hidden the money."

Sherlock shook his head. "If they had known about it, they would have used it years ago to get the hotel back in shape, to pay some actual workmen to do important restoration work on the building. They aren't the type to hoard money for the sake of it when there are sensible things they could spend it on. It wouldn't have done them any good up here while the hotel is slowly falling apart around their ears. You must have noticed it isn't in the best state."

"It's an old building," John said, shrugging. "They always need maintenance of some sort. I see what you mean, though. It doesn't make sense for them to have hidden it here. They might have been desperate enough for money to kill Freddy to get to it, though."

Sherlock nodded. "Theoretically, yes. But you've met them. Does either of them strike you as a killer?"

"Mrs Hendriksen is more likely to mother someone to death," John conceded.

"Exactly."

"So that leaves the other members of the staff," John said. "Perhaps it was Harold."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "You don't like him."

John shrugged. "I don't like the way he acts towards you," he said. "It's disrespectful."

"He was flirting," Sherlock pointed out. "You used to flirt with women in a not dissimilar manner."

"I never shoved my phone number at any of them," John said. "And I actually accept 'No' as an answer."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, we call that basic human decency. He hasn't tried to approach me since I made my disinterest clear. Yet you would still rise to my defense the moment he came near me."

"You're my best friend," John told him, feeling a bit defensive now. "I don't want anyone to try and take advantage of you."

"Perhaps I wish to be taken advantage of," Sherlock suggested.

John opened his mouth but no words came out. Something heavy seemed to have dropped into his stomach all of a sudden.

"But you don't," he said, hoping the sudden agony he felt wasn't in his voice. "Do you?"

"Certainly not by someone like Harold," Sherlock sniffed. "We've had this conversation already, John: I hope you trust me to have better taste than that."

John laughed. "Hm, yes, wouldn't have pegged him to be your type, to be honest. Then again, up until recently, I didn't know you had a type at all."

"That's only because you are frightfully unobservant, John," Sherlock said stiffly. "I merely don't see why I should make a big fuss about it, seeing as it will always remain a merely theoretical preference."

John blinked at him. "What, you don't want a relationship? Ever?"

Sherlock shrugged and began shoving the wooden planks back into place. "Wanting something and knowing whether or not it is feasible are two different things, John. I am well aware of what is and isn't possible for me and there are too many factors standing between me and any relationship I would care to cultivate."

He paused and cleared his throat. "Anyway, that is beside the point. Do you have any specific reason to suspect Harold, apart from his status as an employee here and your dislike of him?"

John sighed but decided to let it drop. Clearly this was a topic Sherlock was unwilling to talk about in any more detail. "No. But I still think he's a valid theory. A waiter is unlikely to make a lot of money, particularly in a remote hotel like this one. It's not as if they're swimming in money here."

Sherlock nodded. "Agreed. He is a feasible option, though we have nothing that points in his specific direction, and I haven't seen enough of the rest of the staff to come to any particular conclusions about them one way or another. We will have to wait and see."

"You've got a theory," John said. "I can tell. Care to share?"

"Perhaps later," Sherlock told him, smiling. "Good of you to notice, though. I'll have to see the rest of the staff and the guests before I can come to any further conclusions. Oh, and we might need to do a little breaking and entering."

"I was waiting for you to say something like that," John sighed. "This investigation has been far too tame for your standards so far. We've only gone snooping around in the middle of the night once."

"To be fair, we've only been here for two nights," Sherlock pointed out.

John blinked. "You're right. This is our third day here but it feels longer, somehow."

"Well, considering they say time flies when you are having fun, I suppose that tells me rather a lot about your general disposition," Sherlock joked.

John rolled his eyes at him. "You know that's not what I meant. I'm having a great time. Much less stressful than all this wedding planning we've been doing."

Sherlock snorted. "John, you are part of a very small minority of people who would rather go off and chase a murderer than prepare for their wedding. I am not sure how that matches up with your aspiration of leading a completely and utterly average life in the suburbs."

"We all have to start at some point," John said. "My average life in the suburbs - thank you for that one, by the way - will start with my wedding, though I suppose in some ways I'm already living it."

"With a few murders sprinkled on top to keep things interesting," Sherlock added. "Do remember to give me a call when you are bored out of your skull in two months' time."

"It's nice to see you have such faith in my marriage," John said, rolling his eyes and not daring to admit that he had the same concerns. "And I never claimed I wouldn't still work cases with you. You're not getting rid of me that easily."

He thought Sherlock looked a bit relieved at that but it was hard to tell in the dim light and Sherlock was already turning around and starting to pick his way back to the attic door. "I'm glad to hear it, John. Now come along, we've got some breaking and entering to do and a killer to apprehend."

"Just what I was hoping to spend my day doing," John said with hardly any trace of sarcasm whatsoever.

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

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**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if John had understood why Sherlock's interest was merely theoretical?_

**> >PLAY<<**

Sherlock shrugged and began shoving the wooden planks back into place. "Wanting something and knowing whether or not it is feasible are two different things, John. I am well aware of what is and isn't possible for me and there are too many factors standing between me and any relationship I would care to cultivate."

He cleared his throat, clearly about to change the topic, but John just couldn't let this go.

"Such as?"

"Pardon?" Sherlock looked honestly confused - either that, or he was shamming rather spectacularly.

"Factors like what?" John asked. "And if you start with your personality, I am going to smack you over the head with something heavy."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly upwards. "You would, wouldn't you? Luckily for me, that is not what I was about to say. While some people may find my personality off-putting, there are always those who are willing to overlook my personal shortcomings in favour of the rest of the package."

"Then what is it?" John didn't even know why he was asking. Curiosity, perhaps, and a desperate, nagging feeling that something wasn't right and that he needed to get to the bottom of this.

Sherlock shrugged again and stood, brushing dust off the knees of his trousers. "Bad luck, I suppose. I would have called it a missed chance but that would imply that a chance ever actually existed, which it didn't. He simply wasn't interested."

"In you?" John asked, finding that extremely hard to believe. Sherlock was the most interesting person he had ever met.

"In men," Sherlock replied. "There's nothing I can do about that, so I will just have to accept the facts and ... move on."

John noticed the change from past to present tense and frowned. Who did he know whom Sherlock might be interested in and who was so clearly unavailable that Sherlock had decided to give up on him?

"Anyway, it's beside the point," Sherlock said. "As I was going to say before you interrupted, do you have any specific reason to suspect Harold, besides the fact that he is a member of the staff and you don't like him?"

He was talking quickly. Too quickly compared to the rest of their conversation. Deflecting, clearly.

"No," John replied and tried to think back. Was there anyone Sherlock might have met while planning his wedd-

_'Oh.'_

"Good. Time to go them. We've found what we were looking for, let's get to the breaking and entering," Sherlock said hastily and brushed past him, starting to pick his way back to the door.

John stared.

When he finally found his voice, it sounded a bit hoarse. "Sherlock."

Sherlock froze and even from several feet away and despite the Belstaff John could see the sudden tension in that lean body. "Yes?"

"You ..." But John didn't know how words worked anymore.

"As I said," Sherlock said softly, not turning to look at him. "It has always been and always will be merely theoretical."

It would have sounded a bit more convincing if it wasn't for the slight tremor in his voice and the continued refusal to look at John as he started moving towards the door again.

John thought he might hyperventilate. He thought he might choke on the dust in here or all the words he wanted to say but somehow couldn't.

Finally, he scrambled after Sherlock, catching up with him just as he pulled open the door.

John reached out and shoved it closed again. That voice in his head was back, screaming at the top of its metaphorical lungs: _'Do not let him go. Whatever you do, do not let him go!'_

It was rather unnecessary advice. John thought he might die if he let Sherlock walk out of this room now.

"What if it wasn't?" he gasped, barely able to put enough inflection into his voice to make it a question.

Half a foot away, Sherlock was staring at his hand on the closed door as if it and the door would vanish and allow him through if he stared hard enough. He must have heard John but clearly had no intention of replying. John watched his throat work and thought that perhaps Sherlock was choking, too.

"What if it wasn't merely theoretical?" he asked. "What if you said that it's all transport and I believed you?"

Even as he said it, he realised the horrible truth in his words. Years of wishing and wanting and missing, two years of heartache that no one could possibly understand, two years of grieving for what had never been ...

"I believed you." He said it again, softly.

Sherlock's head had whipped around and he was now staring at him, gaze frantically jumping all over John's face in an attempt to see, to deduce, to figure out what John had understood mere seconds ago himself.

"John..."

"You never said," John croaked, shaking his head. "All these years, all those people making comments and you never said a word. Not once."

"Why would I?" Sherlock asked quietly, dropping his gaze. "You were already doing enough denying for the both of us."

That hurt, but not as much as realising how much it must have hurt Sherlock.

"I didn't want them to have misconceptions about you," he found himself saying. "I didn't care one bit what they thought about me, never have. But I didn't want them to label you as something I thought you weren't. I didn't want them to label you at all, to shove you into some box as if that is all you are."

Sherlock shook his head. "John ... what are you saying?"

"What I should have said a long time ago. What I wanted to, always, and never have, because I didn't think you'd want to hear it. Shoved it all down and ignored it. I must have done a better job than I thought if I managed to fool even you. But I love you anyway."

They stared at each other for a while.

John smiled. "So ... now that we've got the theoretical part ticked off, would you care for some practical exercises?"

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_Had John been a little more confident in himself and the strength of Sherlock's regard, perhaps all of this could have been resolved just like that. But he wasn't and so..._

**> >PLAY<<**

He paused and cleared his throat. "Anyway, that is beside the point. Do you have any specific reason to suspect Harold, apart from his status as an employee here and your dislike of him?"

John sighed but decided to let it drop.

*****

They quietly left the attic and snuck back down the stairs to the floor that held the door to the room Sherlock was interested in. After one casual look around to make sure no one else was present, he pulled out his trusted lock picks and bent down to examine the lock.

"Bless this old hotel for having proper locks instead of these ridiculous electronic access cards."

"Are you certain about this?" John asked, glancing up and down the corridor. "If we get caught-"

"We won't," Sherlock told him confidently, already fiddling with the lock. "They all think we went upstairs for a shag and most of the others are out hiking or playing games in the common room. Stop being so worried, it makes you look far too suspicious."

"At least we don't have to worry about cameras."

"If this place had any, we'd already know who the killer is and the police wouldn't have needed our help at all," Sherlock said, shrugging. "Ah, there we are."

With a soft 'click' the door opened and he walked inside. John followed, closing the door behind him. "Are you sure about this?"

"Positive. Now get to work. We need to find anything that could support my theory."

"And helping you with that would be so much easier if you told me what your theory actually is."

"Ah, but where would be the fun in that?" Sherlock smirked. "Also, going by our current location, I figured you would be able to take the logical leap yourself."

John sighed but did as he was told.

Sherlock glanced at him just long enough to make sure John had started looking around before making his way to the bathroom. If he was correct, there would be hints all over the place - if one knew where to look. And he knew damn well where to look.

Smiling to himself as he inspected the bathroom shelves and the products arrayed on them, he thought he really had missed this. John had been right when he said the investigation had been rather tame so far - at least compared to Sherlock's usual standards. No wild chases in the middle of the night, no gun-wielding criminals, no one wanting to get even with them or stop them from investigating further. It was nice to not have to worry about these things all the time. Of course that didn't mean he didn't worry - their cover story was ridiculously flimsy and it was a miracle no one had seen through it yet or - if they had - called them out.

Sherlock finished searching the bathroom and went back into the main room. He pulled open the closet doors and started inspecting the clothes arrayed on the hangers and piled in the drawers and on the shelves.

"Interesting."

"Anything useful?"

"About what I expected to find," Sherlock said, shrugging. "We'll see how helpful it will turn out to be in the long term."

John nodded, opening another drawer of the night stand. "Can't say I haven't missed this," he said. "I mean, obviously it's wrong on a whole series of levels but it's also a ton of fun."

Sherlock grinned. "Isn't it? The thrill of being caught, the constant threat of someone walking in on us doing something decidedly naughty..."

"You make it sound as if we're having sex in a semi-public place," John said, snorting.

Sherlock paused. He rather was, wasn't he? And now the thought was in his head and he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from saying _'Care to give it a try?'_.

He could feel the tension in the room rise. Suddenly, the air felt oddly tight and he knew if he were to look at John now, there would be nothing holding him back from pouncing on him, consequences be damned.

A shiver ran down his spine at the thought and he swallowed, torn between lust and terror as his mind provided him with a series of snapshots to go with the scenario: John's shocked face, John's soft lips on his, John's body pressed to his, John's fist colliding with his jaw.

He dropped down onto the carpet and peered under the bed, using that as his excuse to delay his reply as he fought not to throw up.

"Oh please. In a place like this I could find us a better location. A room belonging to another guest is hardly semi-public, is it?"

"Ha. Probably not."

Was it Sherlock's imagination or did John's voice sound just a tad too rough for what should be light-hearted exchange between friends?

He closed his eyes and tried to get a grip. Wishful thinking was going to be the death of him.

_'Focus on the case, Sherlock.'_

He opened his eyes again and returned his attention to the narrow space under the bed. There, shoved into the shadowy corner formed by the wall and night stand, was a smallish box. Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket. It might be useless for such things as phone calls, text messages and accessing the internet in this place, but the torch function worked well enough.

He snapped a couple of pictures and stood.

"Got it."

John smiled, the tension between them dissipating. "Really?"

Sherlock showed him the pictures, grinning triumphantly. "Told you I was right."

"I never doubted it for a second," John said. "You bloody genius."

They shared a grin and Sherlock forced his gaze away from John's face before the tension could resurface. "Come on, let's get out of here. I think we both could do with a shower and a change of clothes."

"I think you've taken more showers since we arrived than we've spent days here," John said as they exited the room and Sherlock manipulated the lock back into place with his lock picks.

"And so would you, if you had been snooping through the attic with me yesterday," Sherlock said, straightening. "Come on."

They returned to their own room in silence and breathed a sigh of relief when the door closed behind them without them encountering any of the other guests or members of staff.


	16. Chapter 16

"When are you going to do it?," John asked. Sherlock could feel his eyes on him as he took off his Belstaff and started clearing it of the larger dust mites that had attached themselves to it in the attic. As soon as they got back to London, a trip to the dry cleaners was in order.

"Do what? I'm not going to do anything."

"Reveal the killer, of course," John said, his thoughts firmly on the case for once while Sherlock's ...weren't. "Or were you planning on letting them get away with it?"

"Oh. No, of course not." He paused and licked his lips. "Probably after breakfast tomorrow morning. That will give us sufficient time to alert the police and get them to come out here. This lack of phone reception is getting tiresome really quickly."

"You think no phone reception is tiresome after less than five minutes," John pointed out. "What did you think I was referring to, anyway?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing. I was distracted."

He kept his attention on his coat, making a face as he plucked a particularly large dustmite off the fabric. "Disgusting."

"You're not usually that fussy about getting dirty," John observed. Apparently he was having one of his aware days. If he were a praying man, Sherlock would have sent a silent prayer to heaven to make sure John didn't suddenly become too observant of all the wrong things.

"Usually I live less than a five minute walk away from a very good dry cleaner," he said primly. "It's a Belstaff, not some rag I got at Primark."

"I'm amazed you even know what Primark is."

Sherlock snorted. "Oh please. It's a large, overcrowded place with terrible air circulation and clothing of inferior quality that tries to be hip and appeal to young customers, yet still manages to be utterly misogynistic in its sizing charts, not to mention the questionable employment policies regarding the manufacturers of said clothes. The only thing it has got going for it are the affordable prices for people with a lower income."

"Or people who simply wish to save their money for more important things than clothes," John suggested.

"Or that," Sherlock conceded, knowing full well that John himself owned several items of clothing he had bought there. "Though I hardly see the point. A well-dressed man has doors opened for him that remain closed to others."

"And you capitalise on that mercilessly," John said, grinning. "Don't think I don't know that half your suits are Spencer Hart."

"And you haven't even seen me in a tuxedo yet," Sherlock told him, raising both eyebrows at him and trying very hard not to wonder if seeing him in a tux would make any difference.

"Do you have one?" John actually looked intrigued. It made Sherlock wonder if he should revise his conclusion.

"A tuxedo? Of course. You're getting married in less than a month, John. And I'll have you know I own several."

"Something to look forward to, then," John murmured.

Sherlock shot him a sharp look but didn't dare comment. If the sight of him in a tux was what John looked forward to seeing on his wedding day, perhaps he should model it for him beforehand, just to see what would happen.

"I bet Mary will love you in a tux," John added, apparently thinking out loud. "She's been wondering if you own anything other than your suits."

The little fantasy in Sherlock's head burst like a soap bubble and he hastily schooled his features into a neutral expression. "I'm always happy to surprise her."

"And you are extremely good at surprising people," John said. "Almost everything you do comes as a complete surprise to me and I've known you for over four years now."

"Two of which didn't give you much in the way of surprises," Sherlock pointed out quietly.

"You made up for it by coming back from the dead at the end of them," John said seriously. "I couldn't have been more surprised and I remember thinking, once the shock had passed, that I really shouldn't be surprised at all."

"If it helps, I had hoped to come back sooner and for our reunion to be a happier occasion." Sherlock found himself fiddling with his coat, unable to look at John's face.

Even now, after six months, it was hard to remember his return as anything but a nightmare. To John perhaps it had been less so - at least all he had had to grapple with was Sherlock's initial lie, which was being drowned out by the joy of having him back. Sherlock, on the other hand, had come back to see everything he had fought to come home to slipping right through his hands. And he couldn't even talk to John about it.

Perhaps that was the worst part - this wall of silence that stood between them now, built from all the things Sherlock wanted to say, had planned to say, in many ways even needed to say, but couldn't. And for all of John's anger in the beginning, Sherlock was absolutely certain there were things John wasn't saying, either.

If things were different, he would allow himself to hope that at least some of these things matched what went through his own head. But things weren't different. Mary existed. And John was going to marry her. Therefore, anything he might have to say by default didn't match up.

"I was happy," John said softly, tearing him from his thoughts. "Bloody furious, damn right, but also happy. You have no idea what it did to me, Sherlock. Watching you jump and being unable to do anything to save you. And seeing you alive ... I thought I was dreaming. I thought someone had clubbed me over the head with something heavy and this was it. And I was fine with that. I thought I had at least gotten to see you again."

He shook his head. "But I'm still alive and unconcussed and you are here. You are real. You are alive. And I'll be grateful for that every day of my life, no matter what."

Sherlock stared at him, blinking rapidly. "John..."

"So don't you ever think you don't matter," John told him fiercely. "Because you do. Understand?"

"Yes," Sherlock breathed, wondering if agony was too kind a word to describe his current state. "I'm sorry I left you like that, John. I was not prepared for your anger over being made to grieve." He paused, licked his lips. "I did not expect you to grieve at all. I didn't know."

John smiled a wry little smile. "Well, you've never been good with sentiment, particularly that of other people towards you."

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm hardly alone in that."

He carefully hung his Belstaff over the back of one of the armchairs and changed the topic. "I'll make the call to the local police right after dinner. We can enjoy ourselves tomorrow morning watching our killer sweat."

"One of our many favourite pastimes," John said, laughing. "On the plus side, we'll be left with two full days here where we can do nothing but relax and do nothing."

Sherlock pulled a face. "How ghastly."

That made John laugh again though it wasn't all that funny in Sherlock's opinion. Perhaps John needed to release a bit of the tension that kept building up between them - provided he even noticed it.

"Come on, let's have those showers you spoke of earlier and get ready for lunch," John said, pushing him towards the bathroom. "Go first, your hair takes ages."

Sherlock came dangerously close to saying  _'Care to share?'_ but managed to stay silent and not put his foot in it just in time.

*****

True to his word, Sherlock returned to Mr Hendriksen's office immediately after dinner that evening. This time, he brought John with him.

"Oh, Mr Sigerson! I didn't expect you to come back so soon," the old man said. "What can I do for you?"

"I require use of your phone for a couple of minutes, if you don't mind," Sherlock said. "I need to make a very important phone call."

"But of course, sir. It's right over here."

He pointed them to the cluttered sideboard where an old phone with a dialing disk was perched precariously on a pile of paper.

Sherlock looked at the phone as if it had personally offended him. "I don't suppose you have a phone book nearby?"

Mr Hendriksen did and managed to unearth it from the chaos with surprising accuracy and speed.

Sherlock flipped through it and quickly found the number he wanted.

The phone whirred and clicked as he dialled and they could all hear the tone as the connection was established.

"It's a bit like time-travel," John commented, amused. "And we only upgraded to smartphones a couple of years ago."

"You can't stop progress," Sherlock told him. "Some people will do anything to keep living in the Stone Age but even the most conservative politician can only slow down the inevitable. Clinging to the past only leaves you utterly unprepared for the future and inept in the present."

A male voice sounded at the other end of the line.

"Hello," Sherlock said. "Are you the police department tasked with the murder up at The Last Stand hotel? ... Yes? Very good. ... I do have information, as it happens. Why don't you send some of your boys over tomorrow morning to arrest the killer? ... That's what I thought. ... No, I'm quite confident. Do ask for Sherlock Holmes."

John grinned as Mr Fredriksen's mouth dropped open. "If you require my credentials, don't hesitate to call Detective Inspector Lestrade at Scotland Yard. ... Yes. ... Thank you. Goodbye."

Sherlock hung up. "They'll be here first thing tomorrow. Gosh I do enjoy people knowing my name. It makes everything run so smoothly. I didn't even have to deduce him over the phone."

Mr Hendriksen was still gaping at him. "You are Sherlock Holmes?"

"Indeed. My apologies for the false name but we thought it might tip the killer off that I was on their trail."

"I dare say," Mr Hendriksen muttered and turned to John. "So you would be Dr John Watson, then."

"Pleased to meet you," John said, shaking his hand with that charming smile of his. "I hope we haven't been an inconvenience."

"Not at all, young man, not at all."

Despite his words, the old man looked like he needed to sit down. "I have heard of you, of course. Word travels even to our parts, eventually." He blinked at Sherlock. "Aren't you supposed to be dead?"

"I gave it up after two years," Sherlock told him. "Can't recommend being dead but perhaps I went about it the wrong way. I hear it's supposed to be very peaceful and I certainly got none off that."

"And we all hope you won't get to try it again any time soon," John said sternly before nodding to the telephone. "When did they say they would arrive?"

"First thing tomorrow, right at 8 am," Sherlock said happily. "So we only have to keep up this charade for-" he glanced at his watch "-another 13 hours, most of which we will hopefully spend sleeping."

"Well, let's make the most of it and go join our fellow holidaymakers, then," John suggested. "We wouldn't want anyone to get suspicious and leave early."

Sherlock tilted his head at him. "Do you know, sometimes I think I don't give you enough credit, John."

"Funny. I think that all the time."

They were just about to leave when Sherlock turned back to Mr Hendriksen. "I'm sure I don't have to impress upon you how important it is to keep this quiet," he said seriously. "You can talk about it all you like tomorrow, just as soon as the arrest has been made."

"My lips are sealed," Mr Hendriksen promised, and mimed locking his mouth and throwing away an imaginary key.

Sherlock waited until his back was turned before rolling his eyes.

*****

As was to be expected at this time of day, the other guests were assembled in the lounge, chatting quietly or playing a card game at the antique wooden table that dominated the left half of the room.

A sideboard held a number of tattered paperbacks and a pile of games. Sherlock grinned when he noticed the Cluedo.

"Care for a game?"

John laughed. "I'll never play Cluedo with you again, ....William." There was only the slightest hesitation before the name and Sherlock shot him an appreciative look which John countered with a raised eyebrow. "I keep telling you, it's impossible for the victim to have done it."

Aware of the many curious eyes on them, Sherlock stepped closer until he was right inside John's personal space, then leaned forward to bring his mouth close to his ear and whisper: "Ah, but I already proved you wrong about that."

John, bless him and his mediocre but present acting skills, grasped the inside of Sherlock's elbow as if to steady himself and replied in an equally low tone: "That's not a point in your favour."

Sherlock smiled, lowering his lashes and doing his best to look besotted. It wasn't difficult. "Isn't it?"

"Get a room, you two!" Patricia Long called from the other side of the room.

"They already did that this morning ... and all of the afternoon," James Marquis said, smirking into a glass of whiskey.

Patricia shook her head in fake disgust. "You boys put even Arthur and Eliza to shame."

"Aw, John, did you hear that?" Sherlock asked, stepping back and moving to join them at their table. "We're worse than the newlyweds."

"Mmh, that's what you'd like to think," Eliza Channing chimed in, smiling like a sphynx. To everyone's amusement, her husband's ears turned pink.

"I don't think I'm _that_ bad," John said.

Sherlock dared to give him a heated look. "I'd have to agree."

Patricia made pretend gagging noises into her glass, winking at them at the same time. "Were you ever like this?" she asked, turning to the Walczaks, who sat at the other end of the long table, playing a game of cards.

Henryk paused in contemplating his hand and smiled at his wife. "Worse, my dear, and we still are. You young people think anyone above the age of 50 becomes a monk. Ah, to be young and clueless again."

Weronikia laughed. "Henryk, my love! Don't make me blush."

"But why not, when it becomes you so?"

"I take back everything I said," Patricia declared. "Everyone here is either a hot mess or ready to make one."

"No need to be jealous," John said airily. "You can always try to hook up with one of the maids. Where are they, by the way?"

"Well at least one of them is currently asleep," Patricia said, not quite managing to maintain a pokerface.

"I wonder what could have tired her out like that," Sherlock said, pleasantly surprised by how easily this banter with relative strangers came to him.

"Don't worry," John told him happily. "I'll show you later."

Henryk laughed so hard at that he knocked over his glass of wine. Immediately, several people were on hand with napkins and tissues to help clean up the mess.

"The way we're talking, even the table cloth turned red," John observed with wry amusement. "I have never seen you jump backward so quickly, William. Scared it might ruin your shirt? I will remember to bring an open bottle of red wine the next time I want to back you into a corner."

"Bold of you to assume that I wouldn't make you clean up the resulting mess with your tongue," Sherlock found himself saying, much to his own shock.

"Now that I think about it, they do have a nice wine on the room service menu. We should order a bottle," John replied.

There was laughter all around and Patricia buried her face in her hands in mock despair. Sherlock was privately glad that John was too distracted by the laughter to actually look at him for longer than a glance. There was no chance he would ever see the desire on Sherlock's face and write it off as good acting.

Hearing John make filthy promises aimed in his direction had sent a shiver down his spine and he bit his lip to stop himself from saying  _"Something for me to look forward to, then"_ .

The conversation moved on and after another hour of idle chatting they bid the other guests good night and returned to their room.

*****

John spent most of the night unable to sleep, worried that their target would escape during the night and leave them with nothing to go on but a potentially fake name and a vague description.

Of course Sherlock would probably be able to dissect them so thoroughly as to render any attempt at disguise useless and give the most accurate description any sketch artist had ever received, but even so the risk of them disappearing right from under their hands was considerable.

Over a week had already passed since the murder and who was to say that the guests couldn't end their holiday and return to their jobs and other obligations? After all, the police couldn't hold them here forever with nothing to go on.

In contrast, Sherlock slept as if he didn't have a care in this world, which John found hard to believe. He merely watched him with a mix of envy, annoyance and confused regret that did not seem to have any obvious source.

Soon they would return home to Bak- no, soon Sherlock would return home to Baker Street and John would go to the flat he shared with Mary and all of this would be over. He tried to convince himself he was looking forward to it but the lie felt hollow.

When the alarm on Sherlock's phone finally went off, John had gotten only a couple of hours here and there and was bleary-eyed and fuzzy-headed.

"Couldn't sleep?" Sherlock asked, looking fresh as a daisy.

John glowered at him before reminding himself it wasn't Sherlock's fault and shook his head. "No. I was worried it would all go wrong at the last moment and the murderer would slip through our hands."

Sherlock grinned. "Only if they climbed out of a window."

"Hm?"

His friend reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a keychain. "I nicked the keys to the front and back door from Mr Hendriksen's office yesterday and locked the doors when I excused myself to go to the loo while everyone was in the common room last night."

John gaped at him. "And you didn't think to tell me this?"

"Must have slipped my mind," Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't expect you to worry so."

It wasn't the only thing John had been worried about, of course, but there was no healthy way of saying that, so he kept his mouth shut and hoped Sherlock wouldn't deduce it anyway.

As they entered the breakfast room, they found most of the other guests in an excited huddle. Henryk and Weronikia Walczak sat at their usual table and seemed to make at least an attempt at having breakfast but only little food seemed to be consumed. Everyone else was standing together, clutching their mugs and talking in grave or excited tones.

"Good morning!" John called. "What's going on here?"

"Someone locked us in!" Patricia reported, her eyes wide. "Patrick wanted to go for a smoke and he says the front and back door are both locked." She lowered her voice dramatically. "Perhaps it was the murderer!"

"Why would they do that?"

"So they can kill us all in our beds, probably," Patricia said and the others, while laughing at her drama, nevertheless looked a bit worried.

"Well, they missed their chance then," Sherlock said.

"I am sure there is a reasonable explanation," John assured her, having a hard time hiding his smile. "It has been over a week, has it not? Why would anyone want to kill us now when they've had days to pick us off one by one?"

"Eliza and I haven't let each other out of our sight," Arthur piped in.

James Marquis lowered his cup of coffee long enough to deadpan "Yes, but that's not because you're worried about getting murdered, mate."

There was general laughter as the newlyweds blushed.

"Either way, I am absolutely certain the murderer didn't lock the doors," Sherlock said.

"What makes you so certain?" Patrick Wiltshire asked, frowning.

"Because I did it."

They gaped at him.

"You? Why?"

"To prevent the killer from running away in the dead of night, should the mood strike them," Sherlock said. "It would be a shame if they suddenly remembered a pressing engagement and left, seeing as in ..." he glanced at his watch, "approximately twenty minutes the police will be here to make an arrest."

Silence, followed by James asking in bewilderment: "Has there been a breakthrough? We haven't heard anything."

"There has," Sherlock said. "I solved the case yesterday."

Patricia was the first to catch on. "Your name isn't William Sigerson, is it?"

John decided to take over before someone had the bright idea to punch Sherlock in the face.

"Allow me to introduce ourselves," he said. "My name is John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes."

James choked on his coffee and Patricia's mouth fell open. The Channing's eyes were wide as saucers.

"Oh my god," Patricia breathed when she found her voice. " _Oh my god_ ! Sherlock Holmes and John Watson in the flesh! I didn't know you two were..."

"We aren't," John said. "The assumption seems to come naturally to people."

"Our apologies for misleading you," Sherlock added stiffly. "I'm sure you all understand why we chose to hide our identities."

"So who's the killer?," Patrick Wiltshire demanded, looking around the room. "Are they here?"

Everyone else followed her example, eyeing all the others with suspicion.

"No, they left some time ago, presumably to pack and escape through a window," Sherlock said. "They disappeared right after I mentioned the pending arrival of the police."

He nodded towards the wall. "I was keeping an eye on their reflection in the glass pane of this painting over there."

They all looked around. The table where Mr and Mrs Walczak had sat was glaringly empty.

"But why..."

"All in due time," Sherlock said. "Ah. I believe they have discovered a crowbar and are making an attempt on the door. Come on, John!"

John, well used to that tone of voice, hurried after Sherlock as he strode from the room.

Out in the entrance hall, Henryk was indeed attempting to force open the front door with a crowbar while his wife urged him to hurry in a strangled whisper.

"Leaving so soon?" Sherlock asked. "You haven't even finished your coffee."

Unfortunately, Mr Walczak did not drop the crowbar in surprise. Instead, he lunged at Sherlock.

John, who was starting to wonder if he had developed some form of sixth sense for this sort of thing happening, sprang forward and managed to wrestle the man's arm down before he could do more than swing in Sherlock's vague direction. The older man was quite spry for his age and put up a good fight but John knew how to quickly and efficiently disarm an attacker and within moments he had Henryk on his knees with his arm twisted behind his back and the crowbar on the floor.

Weronikia screamed in the background and began to sob and into the general confusion came the rest of the guests and staff who had followed John and Sherlock or had been drawn in by the general commotion.

Outside, they could hear wheels crunching on gravel as several cars rolled to a stop.

"And that will be the police," Sherlock said, sidestepping Mrs Walczak to unlock the front door. "Sorry, did you think you had 20 minutes? I lied about their ETA."

She lunged at him. Sherlock, faster than even John had seen him move, evaded her grip and caught her upper arms to prevent her from smashing face-first against the door.

"That will be enough of that," he said. "I suppose I should be glad you didn't have ready access to a knife this time around, eh, Weronikia? Poor Freddy wasn't quite so lucky, was he?"

She attempted to spit at him but as he was standing behind her, the attempt failed miserably.

"Always a shame when people just don't want to listen," Sherlock sighed. "Oh well."

He nodded towards the officers now coming through the door. "Here is your murderer and her accomplice, officers," he said. "They attempted to leave the premises early when they heard the police were on their way so we had to take measures."

"He attacked Sherlock with a crowbar," John added as the couple was put in handcuffs. "I want that on the record."

"Henryk was merely trying to protect his wife," Sherlock said, shrugging. "I suppose out of the two of them he has never really cared for their money. Isn't that right, Henryk? It must have come as a shock to go from being so rich to barely scraping by but it wasn't all bad, was it? After all, you had your wife and you knew you just had to wait for your annual holiday in Scotland to roll around so you could come here and get the little treasure you had stuffed away for a rainy day."

Henryk glared at him but nodded.

Sherlock nodded back. "Clever of you to spend some time hear each year, creating the myth of a ghost haunting the attic to keep people away. It must have come as quite the shock to arrive here, ready to regain at least some of your wealth, only to find that poor Freddy had discovered your hiding place when he was replacing some old wires in the attic. As a general tip to anyone wishing to hide something of value: don't leave it in a place that may be accessed for maintenance work unless you can be certain you will have time to remove it beforehand. You accepted your bad luck and were ready to move on with your life."

He shrugged and turned to Weronikia.

"But you weren't so easily reconciled. You had gotten used to a certain lifestyle and while Henryk was prepared to accept the facts, you decided to do something about it. So you sent Freddy a note asking him to meet you by the back door and you confronted him. You took a knife from the kitchen. Perhaps to threaten him, to scare him a little. Perhaps it was always your intention to kill him. The court will have to decide that. But kill him you did, eventually. Congratulatios. You're not getting your money back and your life is going to go from average but pleasant with a husband who loves you to a lonely prison cell with no luxury whatsoever."

She spat in his direction.

"Thank you for confirming my theory," Sherlock said calmly. He turned to the officers. "I suppose that is all you needed to hear. If you have any further questions or require a full statement, I will be here for another two days. Feel free to come by at any time."

John nodded to them all and followed Sherlock up the stairs.

"That went well."

"Luckily you are extremely skilled at disarming people," Sherlock commented as they walked down the hallway to their room. "He could have done a lot of damage with that crowbar."

"Knowing you, you could have stopped him all on your own," John said, shrugging off the praise. "I'm just glad it's all sorted now."

He shook his head. "I still can't believe it was her. What gave them away?"

"I found an embroidered handkerchief in the attic when I first went up there," Sherlock said, closing the door to their room behind him. "It had their initials on it and I noticed him using a similiar one at dinner two days ago. That got my attention because there seemed to be no reason for him to be in the attic. He used one again last night to clean up the spilt wine, by the way. He also didn't seem to be the type to kill someone. So I thought ... who would embroider a handkerchief?"

John laughed and shook his head. "Brilliant."

Sherlock shot him a pleased look. "Thank you."

They smiled at each other. Finally, John blinked and nudged him with his arm before moving over to the small coffee table and armchairs. "Come on, we've got a couple of days left here - let's see if we can find some nice hiking routes. I feel like getting fresh air for a bit."

Sherlock followed him, sinking into the chair opposite and feeling reminded of home. "Yes, let's. I've been meaning to update my dirt collection. The police can get their statement when we're back."

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

.roolf eht no rabworc eht dna kcab sih dniheb detsiwt mra sih htiw seenk sih no kyrneH dah eh stnemom nihtiw dna rekcatta na mrasid yltneiciffe dna ylkciuq ot woh wenk nhoJ tub thgif doog a pu tup dna ega sih rof yrps etiuq saw nam redlo ehT .noitcerid eugav s'kcolrehS ni gniws naht erom od dluoc eh erofeb nwod mra s'nam eht eltserw ot deganam dna drawrof gnarps ,gnineppah gniht fo tros siht rof esnes htxis fo mrof emos depoleved dah eh fi rednow ot gnitrats saw ohw ,nhoJ

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if Henryk had managed to fight back with a little bit more force than John expected?_

**> >PLAY<<**

John, who was starting to wonder if he had developed some form of sixth sense for this sort of thing happening, sprang forward and tried to wrestle the man's arm down before he could do more than swing in Sherlock's vague direction.

But Henryk, demonstrating some unforseen agility, managed to twist sideways and brought the crowbar down.

John ducked and swayed to the left at the same time, avoiding having his skull bashed in by sheer dumb luck. The crowbar still hit him with considerable force and he went down, black spots dancing before his eyes.

"JOHN!"

There were noises and a crack that sounded like breaking bone, the heavy clang of metal on the floor tiles and then someone started screaming.

John, dazed, stared at the ceiling and tried to blink the black spots away. His head ached, a dull, throbbing pulse above his right ear.

"John? John! Can you hear me?"

He blinked again, trying to get his vision to clear. Sherlock's face swam into focus. He looked unnaturally pale and his eyes were wide with fear. "John?"

John groaned. It was not as reassuring as he had hoped it would be.

"Can you hear me, John? Blink once if you can."

John blinked.

"Oh, thank god."

His vision cleared a little further and he was able to make out that Sherlock was kneeling next to him, looking wretched. "John..."

Large hands moved to gently cradle his head. John could feel them shaking. The last time he had seen Sherlock so afraid had been at the pool when he had been covered in Semtex.

"I'm fine," he croaked and cleared his throat. "He didn't hit me as hard as he wanted to."

"That is not even remotely reassuring, John," Sherlock said. "Here, let me see."

He carefully turned John's head to the side to get a better look at his wound. "I can't see any blood but you'll have a nasty bump."

John tried to shrug as well as he could while lying down. "I've had worse in Rugby games."

"It's just as well," Sherlock said, turning to glare at someone over his shoulder. "If you had killed John, you would not have left this room alive."

John stared at him, struck by the fierceness in Sherlock's voice, the conviction to his words. He looked tense and angry and worried all at the same time and looking at his face John found he could very easily believe that Sherlock would commit homicide for him.

It shouldn't have come as such a surprise - he had already killed for Sherlock and Sherlock had died for him, after all. But now ... John thought that perhaps there was more to it. Killing to save a life was one thing but Sherlock had just admitted his willingness to kill to avenge John's murder.

That was ... well. That was something to think about, wasn't it?

"Sherlock," he began, not sure how he wanted to finish the sentence.

Sherlock turned to look at him again, an untold emotion in his eyes. "He could have  _ killed _ you. You could have died and there would have been nothing I could do, John. Not a single thing."

John managed to lift his hand and press it to Sherlock's cheek. "But he didn't. I'm fine. Give me some ice for my head and handful of painkillers and I'll be right as rain in no time at all."

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his face into John's hand. He looked like he was about to cry and that was more terrifying than almost being killed had ever been.

"Hey, hey, come here. Don't ..."

John used his hand to guide Sherlock down to him. "Can I...?"

But Sherlock was already there, hot breath on his face, eyes wide and unblinking. "Yes."

John kissed him.

There was noise all around them - people talking, the heavy thread of the boots of various police officers who must have arrived at some point, Weronikia sobbing and Henryk cursing. But John was kissing Sherlock, so none of it mattered.

Sherlock pulled back carefully, hands still wrapped aroud John's head in a gentle cradle. "John..."

"Can ... can you get me to the office?" John asked. "I need to make a phone call."

"The police already called for a doct-"

"No." John tried to shake his head but stopped immediately when his vision swam and more pain throbbed through his skull. "Ugh. No. I need to call Mary. Cancel... cancel the wedding."

Sherlock blinked at him. Several long seconds passed.

"Okay," Sherlock said. "Okay. But only after you've had someone examine your head."

John laughed. "No concussion in the world could make me want to get married to her after this."

And he pulled Sherlock back down.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_Sometimes, it takes a healthy dose of fear to make you face your feelings. But Sherlock and John never got that dose. Not like that. And so..._

**> >PLAY<<**

John, who was starting to wonder if he had developed some form of sixth sense for this sort of thing happening, sprang forward and managed to wrestle the man's arm down before he could do more than swing in Sherlock's vague direction. The older man was quite spry for his age and put up a good fight but John knew how to quickly and efficiently disarm an attacker and within moments he had Henryk on his knees with his arm twisted behind his back and the crowbar on the floor.

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last Rewind scene. Consider yourselves warned.

That evening, once they got back from their spontaneous hike, John excused himself after dinner. Sherlock lingered behind, held back by the Channings peppering him with questions about how he had solved the case and for how long he had known who the killer was.

By the time he made it out of the dining room, there was no trace of John. Sherlock was just about to head up to their room to look for him there when Mr Hendriksen nodded at him from behind the reception desk and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Your man is in there, Mr Holmes, making a phone call."

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to deny it, but ... well ... John was his man, whether he knew it or not. And perhaps now, with the couple of days they had left here and the case out of the way, he could finally do something about that.

"Thank you," he said softly as he rounded the reception and approached the door to the back office.

"Not to worry. I was just about to head down to the kitchen to talk to my wife about breakfast tomorrow," Mr Hendriksen said and tactfully retreated.

Sherlock waited for him to disappear down the hallway and then ducked behind the desk as voices came from the dining hall - the other guests leaving and heading for the lounge.

He waited until their voices had faded and he was sure no one else would walk into the hall and then carefully nudged open the door, not wanting to disturb John. He would just wait for him to finish up in the office, where no one else would badger him with questions.

"... going to be home soon," John was saying.

Sherlock peeked around the door and saw John sitting with his back to the door on the rickety chair he himself had sat on the other day as he spoke to Mr Hendriksen.

"No, we'll likely stay a couple more days in case the police have any questions. I'm calling from the office phone, just wanted to check in, see how you were doing."

Sherlock could hear the worry in John's voice. Talking to Mary, then. He didn't bother to stifle the pang that went through him.

No more. He could take no more of this not knowing. He had a couple of days left and he would make the most of them. The time to hide his feelings was over.

He didn't know why he still lingered in the door instead of walking all the way into the office. Perhaps it was instinct, or lingering fear.

A moment later, John appeared to wrap up his call. "Yes ... yes of course. You too." A short laugh. "Right. I'll see you soon. ... Love you, too."

Sherlock carefully stepped back and pulled the door closed without a sound.

One step backward, then another. He turned and stalked towards the stairs, up to their room.There was no point in lingering any longer, no point in saying anything.

_'Love you, too'_ John had said to Mary.

And taken the fight right out of him.

*****

When John came up to their room five minutes later, their suitcases were open next to the bed and Sherlock held a pile of clothes in his hands.

John blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Packing," Sherlock said, not turning around.

"Yes, I can see that. Why are you packing? I thought we were going to stay for another couple of days."

Sherlock shrugged. "I've changed my mind. Your wedding is three weeks away, we really can't spare any more time to laze around here."

"But what if the police have any more questions?" John asked. "You haven't even given them a proper statement yet."

"They can call me in London," Sherlock said. "Or I'll e-mail it to them. No point wasting several days for something that will take an hour at most."

John didn't care about the statement, not really. What he did care about was that he had been rather looking forward to having Sherlock all to himself for two more days. He knew it was stupid and there was no reason for them to stay, except that he wanted to.

"When do you want to leave?," he asked, trying to squash his disappointment.

"First thing tomorrow," Sherlock said. "It's a long drive, the sooner we leave, the better. I will leave a message with Mr Hendriksen so the police will know where they can reach me."

John nodded. "All right."

He considered telling Sherlock about the phone call he had just made but something about Sherlock's closed-off expression made him hesitate. Sherlock didn't look like he was in the mood to talk and he likely knew it was Harry's birthday today. There was no point drawing him into a conversation when he was in this sort of mood.

So John just sighed and started packing his things.

*****

That night, Sherlock did not sleep. He went to bed because John all but ordered him to, but did not close his eyes. Next to him, John had fallen asleep within twenty minutes, a muttered 'Good night' the last thing he said.

Sherlock remained wide awake. Every breath was like a brick dropping into his stomach, a weight tugging him down.

It was over now. It was well and truly over and there wasn't a thing he could do about it. It had been stupid to hope, to want, when he had known all along that John had already made his choice and sealed it with a ring.

And now it was over. Today he had solved the last out-of-town case John would ever accompany him on. And tonight was the last night he would ever get to be this close to John for any length of time.

He was hopelessly attuned to every move, every sound John made as he slept.

John was leaving him. At least when Sherlock had left him behind, it had been under duress rather than by choice. Just the thought made something in his chest ache.

John had  _chosen_ this. John  _wanted_ this.

These past two years and six months had been hell, but given the choice, Sherlock would do it all over again just for the handful of days they had had here in this hotel.

Despite that, a small part of him wished he hadn't ever made it home.

John was leaving him and he wouldn't even get to say goodbye. You didn't tell your best friend goodbye when he was getting married. You stood by his side and celebrated. But he needed that goodbye. Needed a moment where he could draw the line and tell himself that this was it. No more.

John shifted and his foot brushed along Sherlock's left calf, effectively derailing his train of thought.

Sighing in his sleep, John settled again while next to him, Sherlock burned.

*****

The car pulled up in front of 221b Baker Street and Sherlock jumped out with his bag in hand as quickly as if the vehicle contained a swarm of angry hornets. "Stop by tomorrow so we can finalise the colour scheme for the napkins, John!" he called before shutting the door. John didn't even have time to reply.

Shaking his head, he shifted into first gear and drove on, steering the rental car towards home. He would have to return it to the rental place tomorrow. Seeing something out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at the passenger seat and was surprised to find a bunch of twenty pound notes. They had clearly been left there on purpose - Sherlock's way of covering the rental fee, he realised. It was a surprisingly considerate gesture, one he did not normally expect of his friend. Sherlock had certainly started acting quite strange recently.

Even the drive home had been quiet and filled with an odd tension John knew he wasn't the only one aware of. Every now and then, he had stolen a glance or two in Sherlock's direction only to find him looking very serious. Once or twice, he thought he caught a flash of dread in those iridescent eyes when Sherlock didn't manage to look away in time.

Understanding sat like a heavy rock in John's stomach.

Sherlock had asked for one week where they could simply be the way they had been before all this. One week away from weddings and anything but the two of them and the case.

Now, their time was up and it didn't take a genius to realise that the era of their crime-fighting days was over. John might still be able to help out on cases occasionally, but Sherlock would not take any new ones until after the wedding and by then John would be married, as was generally the case with weddings.

Married, living in a nice suburban home with a nice, suburban wife. And no Sherlock.

His chest ached at the thought and he could only imagine what it must be like for his friend. If the past week had shown anything, it was that Sherlock loved having John along on cases. He would take time to adjust and he clearly didn't like having to do so in the first place, no matter how pleased he may be about John's marriage as a whole.

And then there was this morning.

The memory was slightly hazy but he remembered it clearly enough to know it hadn't been a dream. Drifting along on the fuzzy edge between sleep and consciousness, he had felt a warm body stretched out by his side, solid heat from his shoulder all the way down to his feet. He had felt Sherlock lean in, his face merely inches away from John's ear so he could whisper the words he had clearly been gearing up to say all week.

The wall of heat had vanished and he had fallen asleep again, but the memory of it - and the quiet words - still lingered in his mind.

_"Goodbye, John."_

*****

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_".nhoJ ,eybdooG"_

_.dnim sih ni deregnil llits - sdrow teiuq eht dna - ti fo yromem eht tub ,niaga peelsa nellaf dah eh dna dehsinav dah taeh fo llaw ehT_

_.keew lla yas ot pu gniraeg neeb ylraelc dah eh sdrow eht repsihw dluoc eh os rae s'nhoJ morf yawa sehcni ylerem ecaf sih ,ni nael kcolrehS tlef dah eH .teef sih ot nwod yaw eht lla redluohs sih morf taeh dilos ,edis sih yb tuo dehcterts ydob mraw a tlef dah eh ,ssensuoicsnoc dna peels neewteb egde yzzuf eht no gnola gnitfirD .maerd a neeb t'ndah ti wonk ot hguone ylraelc ti derebmemer eh tub yzah ylthgils saw yromem ehT_

**> >PAUSE<<**

_But what if Sherlock had said something else - and what if John had been more alert?_

**> >PLAY<<**

John was drifting along on the fuzzy edge between sleep and consciousness, feeling a warm body stretched out by his side, solid heat from his shoulder all the way down to his feet. He felt Sherlock - because of course it was Sherlock - lean in, his face merely inches away from John's ear by the feel of it, so he could whisper the words he had clearly been gearing up to say all week.

"Goodbye, love."

John's breath caught in his lungs. If Sherlock had emptied a bucket of ice water over his head, he could not have been more shocked.

It hit him then, really hit him, that this  _ was _ goodbye. There would be no more cases except for small ones here and there, the type that Sherlock considered hardly worth leaving the flat for. No more adventures, because John would no longer have the time to join his friend on anything extensive, not with a new wife and the flat and his job. Not with the life he was about to start.

A life without Sherlock. Sherlock, who called him 'love'.

He could feel the mattress shifting even as the realisation flashed through his mind, and a moment later Sherlock's warm body - trembling, god, he was  _ shaking _ \- moved away and John acted without thinking.

He found himself reaching out blindly, catching hold of Sherlock's arm and pulling him back before he managed to force his eyes open so he could see, see the anguish half-hidden by surprise on that familiar face and he couldn't stand it, he couldn't stand another second of this, not now that he knew that Sherlock felt exactly the same way, that this was destroying Sherlock as much as it was destroying him.

John barely managed to keep up with his own thoughts so he decided to abandon thought alltogether and went with feeling instead.

He pulled Sherlock back towards him, using his surprise to steer him along, and reached out with his other hand to drag him down so he could kiss him.

Sherlock fell on top of him with a gasp and a moan, returning John's desperate, if rather uncoordinated, kiss for several glorious seconds before tearing his mouth away and pushing himself up on his arms.

"No. Don't..."

John, now fully awake and with his eyes wide open, blinked at him. "Don't what?"

Sherlock shook his head and his entire body twitched, torn between his obvious thoughts of escaping and his desire to remain. "Don't do this to me. That's not fair."

_ 'He's right' _ John thought, dazedly. _ 'It isn't.' _

"No," he agreed. "If life was fair, I'd call Mary first and explain but I really don't want to have that conversation with Mr Hendriksen watching me in his office."

But Sherlock was already talking again. " _ You can't do this,  _ John! You can't tell her you love her and then just kiss me when it doesn't mean anything to you, just because you know I wan- wait, what did you say?"

"If life was fair," John repeated, "I'd call Mary first. Before doing this with you. But it isn't and I can't and I have zero incentives to leave this bed right now."

He watched the conflict in Sherlock's eyes, the doubt, the hesitation.

John sighed and let go of Sherlock's shoulder so he could run his hand over his face. "I don't want to say goodbye to you. I don't want the life we had together to end. Not like this. Not in any other way, either. And I realise this is an idiotic thing for me to say, seeing as I'm the one who was so determined to not let us get back to it, but ..."

By this point, Sherlock seemed to have caught on to what John was trying to say.

"John, please, be serious. I need you to be serious. You told her you loved her only last night. If you are playing with me here, I won't ever forgive you."

"I'm as serious as a triple murderer with his finger on the trigger," John said. "I thought you didn't want me." He paused. "And I haven't spoken to her all week. I ... oh god, you heard me on the phone last night?"

"I was looking for you," Sherlock said, averting his gaze. "I heard you well enough."

"I was talking to Harry," John said. "It was her birthday yesterday."

Sherlock stared at him. "I ..."

"I never told Mary I loved her," John said, a bit surprised as he realised it was true. "Guess that should have given me a hint. But even so ... I didn't think you wanted me."

Sherlock frowned. "John, I all but shouted my feelings from the rooftops."

They both winced. "Bad choice of words, my apologies. But the point still stands. I did everything short of writing your name into the sky."

John opened his mouth to argue but a series of little moments flashed before his eyes and he had to concede. "You rather did, didn't you? Guess I really am an idiot."

"That's all right," Sherlock said, sounding rather choked. "I love you anyway."

John wrapped both arms around his friend's lanky body and pulled him down, crushing Sherlock against him as he struggled to breathe through the shock that was finally catching up with him.

God, it had almost been too late. He had almost lost Sherlock for good, had almost lost  _ this  _ for good.

If Sherlock hadn't said ... if he hadn't reached out ...

He tightened his grip around Sherlock and turned his face until his nose was pressed to the crook of Sherlock's neck and breathed, feeling the rapid beat of Sherlock's pulse against his lips. God, he could have lost this.

_ 'But I didn't,' _ he reminded himself. _ 'We're here. We're together. At least I think we are. And this time I'm not letting him go.' _

They unpacked their suitcases in the morning.

**> >PAUSE<<**

**> >REWIND<<**

_And just like that they could have used this last chance before their return home and John's wedding. But Sherlock had more control over his choice of words and John was too sleepy to understand the words that weren't being said. And so ..._

**> >PLAY<<**

"Goodbye, John."

 


	18. Chapter 18

By the time he turned the key in the door to the flat, John had gotten quite worked up about the realisation that his time working cases by Sherlock's side had definitely come to an end.

"John? Is that you?" Mary called from the kitchen as he closed the door behind him.

"Who else did you expect?" he asked, smiling brightly as he followed the sound of her voice. Just hearing her made him feel better instantly.

She was washing the dishes, her sleeves shoved up to her elbows in that sloppy way of hers. The left one was already sliding back down to her wrist.

Reaching out in a gesture he had performed countless times already, he rolled it back up, pushing it past her elbow this time as he dropped a kiss to the top of her head. "Hello."

She dried off her hands and turned to embrace him, squeezing him tightly. "Welcome home."

After a moment or two, she drew back and looked at him. "You look troubled," she said quietly.

He shrugged, deciding to play it off. "It was not quite the trip I expected," he confessed. "Sherlock's been acting even stranger than usually."

Her searching gaze met his and he thought he saw a flash of defeat in her eyes. "He's finally told you, then."

John frowned. "Told me what? What was he going to tell me? He's been acting quite weird this week."

"Oh," Mary shook her head, letting go of his jumper and smoothing out the wrinkles in the fabric. "Nothing, really. He just mentioned something about the colour schemes that he wanted to talk to you about."

"When did he do that?" The lack of phone reception had been one of the few things Sherlock had complained about at length.

"He sent me a text just before you left."

John groaned. "He did tell me to drop by tomorrow so we could finally make a decision on the napkins."

Mary smiled and if it was a bit shaky, he decided not to read too much into it. "See that you do. I called the florist yesterday to finalise the flower arrangements and we have our first rehearsal scheduled for next week."

"The _first_ rehearsal?" John echoed. "You mean there's more than one?"

"Yes, dear. Sherlock's been quite clear on that point. You didn't tell me he was such a perfectionist."

John chuckled. "He is in some situations. Once he's done catching all of London's criminals, he can set up shop as a wedding planner."

Mary smiled. "I'll be sure to recommend him to all of my friends, then. Now kiss me and then go have a shower while I get dinner started."

He didn't need to be told twice.

*****

Sherlock lay in his bed and stared at the ceiling, barely seeing it. He had no idea if he had slept or not and couldn't remember the last time he had been certain about the answer.

They had come back from Scotland a week ago and every day, getting out of bed was harder than it had been the day before. The black cloud of depression held him down, an unshakeable weight pulling on his very bones.

He had gotten his goodbye. That was important. He had gotten his goodbye and now he needed to honour it.

John and Mary came over almost every day to whittle down the list of things that needed doing. Two days ago, when they had been busy away from the flat the entire day sampling cakes, Sherlock had finally gotten around to calling Lestrade for help with his Best Man's speech.

He remembered sirens outside and thought there might have been a helicopter for some reason, but what really stuck in his mind was the look on Lestrade's face when he had read Sherlock's attempt at a speech and told him quite seriously: "Mate, you can't give that speech."

Sherlock wasn't certain what he meant by that - this precise speech he had written or the Best Man's speech in general. It didn't matter. He had to, and so he had taken Lestrade's advice and rewritten the entire thing. He had burned his other attempt.

Sherlock sighed.

Time to get up. He didn't want to. He wanted to stay right here and not move and maybe time would simply do him the favour of passing and he could skip over the next year or so until he felt ready to deal with the world again.

But what he wanted had never really mattered, had it? So of course today would not be any different. John and Mary would be here in an hour and there was so much left to do. And for John he would do it.

He dragged himself out of bed and through the bathroom, taking the time to shower and fix the mess that was his hair. It wouldn't do for John to notice he was falling apart at the seams. It would all be for naught if he did.

So Sherlock put on a suit and wrangled his hair into obedience with a dash or three of product and painstakingly rebuilt the facade that seemed to collapse every time John walked out the door.

And then he faced another day, because John needed him to.

*****

Sherlock knew even before the final rehearsal had been concluded that this had been a mistake. The previous one had been fine, Mary and John had merely been there as observers while he went over the procedure with the priest and handed the relevant sheet music to the organist and inspected the church once more to make extensive notes on the flower arrangements for the florist.

The final rehearsal though ... that one was the problem. In all his planning of the event, Sherlock had successfully managed to forget the part where every movie went in for the close-up: the vows and kiss.

Well, perhaps "forget" wasn't the right word. He had certainly supressed it, forced himself not to remember that this was going to happen.

Of course they didn't actually exchange any vows, just stood in their appointed places and smiled at each other, but John - always the romantic - cheerfully claimed that the kiss definitely required rehearsal and had spent a good long minute doing just that, much to Mary's delight.

Sherlock had stood precisely one and a half steps behind John and had found occasion to examine the window visible over his friend's shoulder in great detail as he fought not to react in any way. And if there was a look of mild disgust on his face, it could easily be explained away by his opinion of sentiment as a whole.

When it was finally over, he told John he had some last-minute preparations and alterations to take care of and all but fled back to the sanctuary of Baker Street. Of course it wasn't much of a sanctuary with all the notes on wedding planning littering every surface. He had an entire folder set aside for the approaching Stag Night alone, including precise calculations of how much alcohol they could savely imbibe, a mobile app he had created in a minute of downtime, and - on a whim - a picture of the Vitruvian Man with John's face on it. He wasn't quite sure where that last one had come from but had needed a visual for his plannings and it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

It didn't anymore.

He took one look at the papers and fabric samples strewn about the sitting room, released a shaky breath and retreated to his bedroom, the only place free of the upcoming wedding.

With the door firmly closed behind him, he sat on the floor, staring at his empty bed and thinking.

Two hours later, he had reached a conclusion and pulled his phone from his pocket.

A quick swipe of his thumb, a tap on the screen and he lifted the device to his ear.

"It's me. I need a favour."

*****

Four days after the final rehearsal, John had reached a new pinacle of jitteriness and had a hard time sitting still in his armchair in the sitting room of 221b. He was making an effort, though, because Sherlock looked ready to knock him out with a stack of wedding magazines.

A careful examination of his friend while he was engrossed in some task or other had led John to conclude that Sherlock was not to be disturbed. There were dark circles under his eyes, he kept pacing around the room, shifting papers back and forth and rambling on and on about everything that still needed doing.

The wedding was in three days and, as far as John was concerned, the only thing that still needed doing was the stag night.

Sherlock, however, was taking perfectionism to a whole new level. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his hair was dishevelled from countless hours of running his hands through the curls and his usually pristine suit was wrinkled, suggesting he had been wearing it for at least two days in a row - something that never happened.

"So," John said when he couldn't take it another moment.

Sherlock paused in his pacing and turned to look at him. "Yes?"

"The stag night," John began. "Any ideas?"

"Oh yes, don't you worry. I've got an entire folder on that." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "It's tomorrow night. Mary already knows."

"Tomorrow? Why tomorrow?"

"Gives you an entire day to sober up for the wedding," Sherlock explained. "I calculated the optimum amount of alcohol we are allowed to imbibe for maximum fun with minimum consequences but my research has shown that stag nights tend to include unpredictable turns of events, so I made allowances for that. One day should give me more than enough time to find you should you get lost and steal a tiger somewhere."

"Steal a- Sherlock, did you watch _The Hangover_?" John didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the mental image.

His friend shrugged. "It gave me a good overview of the worst case scenario. We should avoid a complete loss of memory at any cost."

"I'll say," John muttered, still trying to imagine any scenario that would lead to him stealing a living tiger.

He wanted to say more, but the sound of Sherlock's mobile ringing stopped him.

"What is it?" Sherlock snapped the moment he had lifted the phone to his ear.

John watched him freeze, his entire body tensing up as he narrowed his eyes at whoever was on the other end of the line. "No."

A few seconds in which the caller said something.

"Forget it," Sherlock hissed. "I don't have the time. John's wedding is in two days and eighteen hours!"

At this point, it didn't even surprise him that Sherlock had a countdown. He rather suspected it was precise down to the nanosecond. The entire exchange made him wonder what the hell Mycroft - for surely it had to be Mycroft, no one else got Sherlock's hackles up like that - wanted.

Sherlock had started pacing restlessly again as he listened to whatever his brother had to say. He was just a couple of steps away from John when he froze once more. The look on his face was ... torn, John decided. Pained. Whatever Mycroft had said, Sherlock clearly didn't like it.

A moment later, his words confirmed it. "That's cruel, Mycroft. Even for you."

Another moment of silence while his brother spoke.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. "Fine. You tell him that. In those words precisely. Don't even think about sugarcoating what you just said to me. If he agrees, so will I. Otherwise, you can stuff it."

With a huff, he shoved the phone at John who barely had time to catch it. "Mycroft?"

"Dr. Watson," the older Holmes brother said in that tone he always used when Sherlock was being unnecessarily difficult and he was appealing to John's common sense.

"What is it?" he demanded, feeling dread rise in his chest. It couldn't be good.

"I am afraid I must steal my brother away from you for a little while," Mycroft said, sounding genuinely sorry for once.

"A severe security breach has occured and I need Sherlock to investigate and deliver the culprit to me right away."

"Can't it wait?" John asked. "You heard him, the wedding is in two days and we're drowning in preparations."

"You don't understand, John. I am requesting my brother's presence for this case immediately. It is a rather convoluted affair and I fear he won't make it back in time for the wedding. I understand this is an inconvenience but it is a matter of national security."

" _An inconvenience_?" John repeated in disbelief. "It's a bit more than that, don't you think?!"

Mycroft sighed. "My brother claims that he will not help unless you allow it."

"Allow it?" He knew he was repeating half the conversation but he just couldn't help it.

"Yes. But let me be absolutely honest with you, John: I am not asking you for permission." Mycroft's tone turned cold and business-like, leaving little doubt to the fact that he probably ordered assassinations on a weekly basis.

"Oh?"

"What I mean is, if you do not tell Sherlock to do this job for me, I will ensure that no one will be available to officiate on your wedding day, the catering will fail to show up and most of the guests won't be able to make it in time because of an inconvenient road blockage. Do you understand me?"

For several seconds, all John could do was stare straight ahead in shock. As luck would have it, he ended up gaping at Sherlock's legs.

"You're joking."

"Not at all, John. And I assure you I would hate for any such thing to happen. Regardless, I have already informed Sherlock that this is what _will_ happen unless he agrees to take the job. He insisted I make you aware of my intentions. I am sorry for the inconvenient timing but this really cannot be put off."

He closed his eyes, a sinking feeling in his chest. Of course something had to go wrong at the last moment. In all their preparations, it hadn't for a moment occured to him that Sherlock would not be with him every step of the way.

"You owe us both a giant favour for this, Mycroft. A huge one. Gigantic, is what I'm getting at. Possibly several. And don't think for one second I won't hold this against you for a long time to come."

He hung up without giving the other man a chance to reply.

Sherlock was staring at him in shock. "You agreed?"

John snorted. "What else was I supposed to do? Let him ruin my wedding day? You know he would have. He made it quite clear that he wasn't joking."

"No, he wasn't," Sherlock agreed. "Still ... John ..."

"It's all right," he said, then sighed. "No, that's a lie. It's definitely not all right. I hate that you won't be there for it and I hate that Mycroft can bully us like that. But it's not your fault and I don't blame you. All right?"

Sherlock looked so conflicted, John couldn't help himself. He got up and hugged him.

"And for what it's worth: I am hugely grateful for all the work you did preparing all this."

Slowly, tentatively, he felt Sherlock's arms creep around his waist. "I hate this," Sherlock said.

"So do I. But it will be fine. I'll get Greg to take tons of pictures and make some videos for you to watch so you can make sure it all went according to plan, all right?"

"All right," Sherlock reluctantly agreed.

John released him and stepped back. Looking around the room, he scratched the back of his neck in discomfort. "I guess that means you will have to pack a bag and be off ASAP? No stag night?"

"No stag night," Sherlock confirmed. "At least, not one I will attend. Get Lestrade to sort out the particulars, he won't be able to make sense of my notes anyway. Tell him when it is and that he has to come up with something good."

He looked as unhappy as John felt, which was quite a feat. He had rarely seen Sherlock as emotional as in the past couple of weeks. Since they had been at The Last Stand to solve a murder, actually.

Before he could say anything, Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom, returning several minutes later with his overnight bag. He always had one at hand for out-of-town cases and only needed to throw in some toiletries to be ready to go.

"Text me when you get back?" John requested, handing Sherlock his phone and charger.

"You'll be on your honeymoon by then," Sherlock reminded him gently.

"Still. Text me."

"All right."

They looked at each other, both painfully aware that, by the time they saw each other next, everything would have changed.

For one crazy moment, John wanted to pull Sherlock closer and kiss him. He balled his hands into fists instead. He was getting married in three days, now was not the time for these silly old feelings to resurface. They weren't welcome, anyway.

"Be careful," John ordered as Sherlock shrugged on his coat. "I don't want to have to cut my honeymoon short because you got yourself landed in hospital. And on that note, don't you dare keep me out of the loop if just such a thing should happen, because I will punch you in the face if you do."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Noted. Have a wonderful wedding, John. I will see you in a couple of weeks."

He turned and left, leaving John alone in the sitting room of 221b with lots of plans for his wedding and no best man to attend it.

*****

Mary knew something was wrong the moment John walked through the door.

"What happened?" she asked before he had time to so much as take off his jacket.

John sighed, his mind still reeling. "Sherlock isn't coming to the wedding."

She stared at him as if he had spoken in another language. "What?!"

"He can't come to the wedding. His brother just called with a very important job."

"So the job is more important than our wedding? A wedding he has been planning for months?" she demanded, crossing her arms.

"Of course not!" John exclaimed. "He said no, of course. Told him to sod off and that he couldn't do it. But Mycroft has his ways ... I told you what he's like. He practically blackmailed Sherlock into going and me into telling him to go."

Mary wasn't inclined to accept that without further information. "How so?"

John sighed, slumping onto the sofa and wrapping his arms around her as she curled up next to him. "If Sherlock didn't take the case, his brother was prepared to make sure our wedding wouldn't happen. No one to officiate, no catering, no guests." He shrugged. "He would have gone through with it, too, if it meant Sherlock would come and do this for him."

Mary covered her mouth in shock. "Good lord!" She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him. "I'm so sorry my love. I know you wanted him there."

"He's my best friend, of course I want him there!" He kissed her temple. "I'll ask Greg to fill in for him, but it just won't be the same."

She sighed and held him tighter.

 


	19. Chapter 19

The next afternoon, a couple of hours before Lestrade would pick him up for his stag night, John found himself inside the sitting room of 221b Baker Street once more. Part of him had expected to see Sherlock there, bent over the seating plan or pacing as he went over the timetable all over again.

The flat was empty.

Of course it was, John had known it would be. It did, however, contain the most important thing he would need on his and Mary's big day: the wedding bands.

They were still in their box, cushioned on white satin and sitting in plain sight on the desk in the sitting room. Precisely where John had left them. He walked across the room to retrieve them, determined to grab the box and leave before Sherlock's absence became too depressing for him to bear.

_'Idiot. He wouldn't have been at your wedding if he was actually dead, either. Be glad he was at least there to see you through to it.'_

The thought didn't cheer him up very much. Instead, he only felt guilty. His wedding was in one and a half days, for god's sake! He should be excited and filled with nervous anticipation, not moping around because his best friend wouldn't be there. And certainly not because a tiny, treacherous part of him wished for a groom instead of a bride.

As he reached for the ring box, his eyes landed on the folder lying on the desk next to it. In Sherlock's messy handwriting the cover said " _Stag Night_ ". He couldn't help himself. He wanted to know what it was that Sherlock had had planned for tonight, their one last adventure together that they hadn't gotten around to doing.

Leaving the rings where they were, he picked up the folder instead. There was a smaller one beneath it, also labelled in Sherlock's own hand: " _Speech_ ".

John stared at it, feeling ironically speechless.

In between all the planning and preparations and napkin-folding, Sherlock had somehow also found the time to actually write a Best Man's speech. John hadn't expected one - and certainly not one that had been pre-drafted and wasn't a spur-of-the-moment thing Sherlock made up as he went along. Clearly the bloody man had gone to a lot of effort to make sure absolutely everything was perfect, going so far as to prevent even himself from screwing up by making a shamble of the speech.

John's throat felt oddly thight.

The speech was another thing Sherlock wouldn't get around to giving, another thing to be discarded and thrown away like a piece of trash, having outlived its purpose. It seemed a shame.

Grabbing that file as well, John carried both over to his armchair and sank into it. After some deliberation, he decided to go in chronological order and opened the Stag Night folder first.

There was no guilt to be found in him - Sherlock had planned this for him, after all. He was perfectly within his rights in reading it all, particularly since he wouldn't get to experience any of it firsthand now.

He flipped open the folder and was just about to turn the cover sheet when his brain caught up with what he was seeing: Leonardo DaVinci's _Vitruvian Man_ , famously known as the Perfect Man.

John couldn't do anything but stare at his own face that Sherlock had glued onto the drawing.

*****

An hour later, John was slumped in his armchair, the Stag Night file dropped carelessly to the floor by his feet, Sherlock's Best Man Speech held loosely in his hands.

The words were blurring before his eyes as he tried and tried again to make any sense of them other than the one they did make.

_'It can't be.'_

And yet he was holding the evidence right here in his hands. When he thought back over the past weeks and months, the signs kept piling up, towering over him in an accusing manner that seemed to ask: _"Why didn't you see it?"_

He didn't know.

All he knew was the memory of Sherlock, freshly back from the dead and staring at John with eyes too big for his face as he begged for forgiveness in a tube car rigged with exlosives and the way his voice had broken when he had pointed out that John would still have a life with Mary if Sherlock hadn't come back at all.

And Sherlock, speechless at the revelation that John considered him his best friend and wanted him to be best man.

The week they had spent up in the Highlands, Sherlock swinging back and forth between bouts of euphoria and nostalgia and about one step away from a breakdown as he asked for just one week where they went back to the way it used to be.

John swallowed.

Sherlock, dancing with him. Sherlock, finding the perfect excuse to kiss him like he might not live to see another day. Sherlock, making him breakfast in bed and stating that he didn't think John wanted him there.

He closed his eyes.

Sherlock, tired and silent on the drive home and his quiet Goodbye still lingering in John's ears.

The past two weeks. Sherlock looking like he hadn't slept at all, stressed out and manic, so desperate to make sure John's wedding day would be absolutely perfect.

And Sherlock, conveniently absent for the big event itself. Sherlock, who had called Mycroft _cruel_ for threatening to stop the wedding, for making John choose between him and Mary.

John blew out a shaky breath, the image of his own face pasted onto the Vetruvian Man dancing in front of his inner eye. Sherlock's idea of the perfect man.

Fragments of the best man speech kept ringing in his head and he could almost hear Sherlock's voice reading them out loud.

_'I never expected to be anyone's best friend ... the man you saved ... the two people who love you most in all this world ...'_

He tried to imagine what would have happened had Sherlock actually given this speech on his wedding day, in front of all the guests and Mary.

How would he have reacted then? Would he have shrugged and written it off as Sherlock being sentimental? Would he have realised what it was Sherlock was actually saying?

But no, he mustn't get ahead of himself. Perhaps he had read it all wrong and was jumping to conclusions. Just because Sherlock had basically stated he loved him, that didn't necessarily have to mean anything more than the 'I love yous' exchanged by friends and family. And up to now, there had never been any indication that he wanted ... wanted ... that he _wanted_ , period.

John shook his head. No, surely Sherlock didn't ... it was _Sherlock_ , for god's sake!

Sherlock, who never gave anyone a second glance or even the time of day.

_'Oh, do you mean the same Sherlock who told you he is gay and has had sex with men?'_ His own mind wouldn't let him live in denial for long.

Great. Now he found himself wondering if Sherlock had told him that on purpose. What had been the point, really? For years they had lived together and Sherlock had ignored all the comments and assumptions about them. John had been certain his friend was asexual. But something must have prompted Sherlock to confess that this wasn't the case.

And the only possible reason that came to mind was John's approaching wedding.

Leaning forward, he dropped the best man's speech onto the floor as well and buried his face in his hands. If Sherlock had wanted to make a move, to tell him the truth, then their week away from London would have provided him with the perfect opportunity.

And yet he hadn't said anything.

Abruptly, he remembered their conversation during the dance lesson in the hotel. The bitter twist to Sherlock's mouth as he promised John to do the right thing.

He had let him go because that was what John wanted, what John had _said_ he wanted. What reason had Sherlock had to believe anything else?

John groaned in frustration. He shouldn't even be thinking about this at all, damn it. His wedding was in a little over a day and it would be a moot point by then. No. It _already was_ a moot point. Of course. He loved Mary.

_'Not the same way you love_ him _.'_

He wanted to have that part of his brain surgically removed.

Instead he just sat there, his mind spinning in endless circles as he tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do now. He was still sitting there when Lestrade came to collect him for the stag night.

*****

The big hand of the huge old grandfather clock quivered slightly as it settled into place. Another minute gone.

He sat on the thick carpet, his back against the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on the hypnotic swing of the pendulum. Every now and then his gaze would dart upwards to watch the large hand shudder forward.

Anxiety formed an ever-tighter knot in his stomach, rendering him unable to move or breathe properly as he watched the minutes tick by.

The terrible thing about having spent days planning the precise schedule of John's wedding was that he now knew it by heart.

He knew when they would enter the church, when they would exchange their vows, put on the rings, kiss.

His stomach turned at the very thought.

Grief and guilt warred for supremacy. He should have been there today, should have stood by John's side and watched him marry the love of his life. He should have smiled as his heart shattered in his chest. He should have celebrated and played the song he had written for their first dance.

Instead, he sat here, holed up in this room with nothing but his own hateful sentiment for company, interspersed with pointless fantasies of what might have happened if he had been braver, if he had told John the truth, or if he had simply accidentally betrayed himself. And, of course, if John had felt the same way.

But rewinding his memory and trying out alternative endings had only served to worsen his pain, his regrets and self-doubt.

Perhaps he would have been strong enough to attend the wedding, smile through it all and keep up the facade until after the whole thing was over and he could return to Baker Street and safely break down. But he didn't dare to risk it, not after the rehearsal and his sudden realisation that, given the opportunity to speak up or be forever silent, there was a good chance he would ruin it all at the last possible moment. He had never been good at keeping his mouth shut, after all.

The very thought of such a thing happening, of him uttering a word - or even a sound - of protest, was more than enough to make his knees shake in panic. He didn't want this to happen. It was bad enough that all the important people in his and John's common group of acquaintances had already guessed, the last thing he wanted was for them to look at him with pity in their eyes.

Well, the second to last thing.

The absolutely last thing he wanted to see was the look on John's face if he figured it out.

Sherlock shuddered, hunching further over his knees which he had drawn up to his chest. Perhaps if he made himself smaller, wrapped his arms around himself, he could somehow hold himself together.

Another flick of his eyes up to the face of the clock told him the ceremony was almost over already. Another five minutes for the vows and the exchange of the rings.

He bit his lip to stiffle the sob rising in his chest.

Four minutes.

There was a terrible, tight feeling in his throat, one he remembered from years ago. He swallowed, tried to even out his breaths and grit his teeth.

_'I will not cry. This is what it's supposed to be like.'_ Perhaps, if he repeated it often enough, he would believe it eventually.

Three minutes.

_'This is my own damn fault. I could have spoken up months ago. I could have avoided this entire mess by telling John the truth and watching him walk away. At least I wouldn't have had to put up with the wedding planning then. Or listen to him go on and on about Mary.'_

Two minutes.

_'It's all for the best. He'll be happy and I will move on and put this stupid sentiment behind me and go back to solving crimes. He can't help with that anyway once the first child shows up. Surely it's just a matter of time. No, this is far better for everyone involved.'_

One minute.

He stared at the pendulum, watched it swing back and forth, back and forth, counting down the last seconds in which he may theoretically still have a fraction of a chance.

He could feel his shields start to crumble, the last frayed threads of his self-control snapping under the strain of having to hold it together for months. The past four weeks had been far more difficult than he could have ever imagined. Knowing that the wedding was over would not bring him respite. Only a sense of finality, another door closing forever.

The clock chimed as the hand made it's final shuddering move, marking the beginning of a new hour and the end of everything Sherlock had ever dared to hope for.

He dropped his head and when the tears finally came, he made no move to stop them.

*****

It was two days after the wedding when Sherlock finally dragged himself up the stairs and into 221b Baker Street, feeling like someone who had just pulled himself up a cliff by the strength of his arms alone after first tumbling down the rocks.

He dropped his bag by the door, stumbled two steps into the room and found himself faced with the empty sitting room and two empty armchairs and a silence that was so loud it hurt his ears.

The sitting room had been cleaned by someone - Mrs Hudson? - and there was no sign of any of the papers pertaining to the wedding and his meticulous planning thereof. Mycroft, then. It was as if the whole thing had never happened and he didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. Burning it all would have been nice but not having to deal with it again also had its merits.

His gaze returned to John's chair, looking too empty and too big for the room.

Staring at the worn reddish upholstery, it suddenly hit him that he was unlikely to see John sit in it ever again.

That's how it went, after all.

New flat, new wife, new life. There wouldn't be time for crime-solving in between marital bliss and all those stereotypically normal things people did when they settled down.

John would make an effort, of course, but other things would interfere and developments would happen and soon he would be gone for good, nothing but a memory that would never fade while he slowly but steadily forgot all about Sherlock and the life they had led.

A choked-off sound escaped his throat, caught between a sob and a whine. Without quite knowing how he made his legs move, he stumbled forward, falling to his knees beside the empty chair he knew he would never allow anyone else to sit in.

Clinging to the armrest in an effort to keep himself from collapsing to the floor, he pressed his face into the cushion.

It still smelled of John.

Sherlock broke.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is for my best friend and flatmate who was there when the first word of this story was written almost four years ago and who was there when most of this chapter was written and who was there when this story was finished and who is still here and listens to me yell about this story all the time. Happy Birthday, love.

He didn't even make a noise, this time. He was reasonably sure there were no tears, either. He was all dried out, nothing left to give. There was only the distant knowledge of the hard floor beneath his knees, the unmistakable scent of John that clung to the chair, and the rough feeling of the worn material of the upholstery against his face.

Sherlock gasped for air, small, desperate pants for oxygen. The air in his mouth tasted like John and dust and he was already terrified of the day when John's scent would fade and dust settle on his possessions, a marker of the passage of time, proof of John's absence.

It hurt worse than Sherlock had expected, worse even than the thought of John being married to someone else. He hadn't thought such a thing was possible.

Several long minutes passed, he wasn't sure how many, before he became aware of someone else's presence in the flat.

It couldn't be Mrs Hudson - she would have announced herself by now. It couldn't be Lestrade - his laboured footsteps were impossible to miss. It also couldn't be John, because he was off on his honeymoon.

That left one option, and Sherlock wasn't very happy with it.

"Go away, Mycroft," he croaked.

He barely recognised his own voice. When was the last time he had had anything to drink? Yesterday? The day before? He wasn't sure. Should probably fix that, get some water. Cold. No tea.

Mycroft didn't go away. He also didn't speak. The room filled with all the pitying comments Sherlock imagined his brother was leaving unspoken, all the _'I told you so'_ s and the _'Caring is not an advantage'_ s and whatever other pointless wisdom he might feel inclined to impart.

Sherlock sighed.

"I really don't have the patience for your admonitions right now," he rasped, still refusing to move. If he stayed where he was, perhaps Mycroft would just give up.

The silence took on a worried edge and he could hear his brother taking a breath, most likely to ask all sorts of inane questions - or worse, answer them without bothering to ask. Best stop that before it started.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said, wondering how big a lie it was. "Eventually," he amended.

More silence, and a quiet puff of exhaled air somewhere behind him.

"You warned me not to get involved," Sherlock said, now irked by Mycroft's refusal to comment. "I didn't listen and you were right. Is that what you wanted? You got it, congratulations. Heaven forbid you're ever wrong about anything." He snatched in a breath, plowing on. "He's gone now and he likely won't come back, and I'll stay as far away as I possibly can without leaving the city, and you can go sod yourself for all I care."

Mycroft made no reply. Perhaps on some level he understood that Sherlock needed to get this off his chest, if only in the hopes that saying the words out loud would somehow make him believe in what he was saying.

He took another, shuddering, breath. "That's what it's supposed to be like, isn't it? Letting him go and smiling as I watch him leave? What's that stupid saying again, the one about setting them free? Well, I have. And he won't be back. There's a wife and house in the suburbs and then 2.3 children and maybe a dog, and a steady job at the clinic. He doesn't need me for that. He never needed me as much as I needed him."

His voice wavered on the last sentence and he took another deep breath, another lungful of John-scented air.

"I'll cope, eventually. I've survived so far, it's bound to-to fade sometime, isn't it? All this sentiment. It'll go away, after a while. God knows where it came from, it'll be gone before I know it, I'm sure. And in the meantime, since you're apparently not even going to talk to me, kindly leave me alone."

There was no response, but Mycroft took a step closer.

Sherlock frowned. Something wasn't right. This wasn't what Mycroft's expensive shoes sounded like on the worn carpet of 221b. Slowly, carefully, using John's armchair to brace himself, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, his back ramrod straight, as he fought for composure.

It was unlikely to be a client. There hadn't been a doorbell and no client would have waited this long without interrupting him. No client would have stayed for the apparent ramblings of a madman.

So - who was it then? Anthea? No, no cloud of perfume.

That left a collection of possible enemies, but why wouldn't they use his distraction to strike?

Perhaps this was Mycroft trying to rile him up by deliberately changing his shoes. Something Sherlock fully expected him to do.

His nervers were too raw for this sort of thing. He felt his temper fray. "I said _'Leave'_. I do not want you here, not today and not any other time. I already told you you were right. There, I've repeated it. Are you happy now?!"

He whirled around, wishing he didn't feel quite so weak and dizzy, to face his older brother as he spat his final question at him.

But it wasn't Mycroft standing in the sitting room.

It was John.

*****

Under any other circumstances, it would have been funny to watch the way Sherlock's face drained of all colour, would have been amusing to see him take a step back, wide-eyed, and almost stumble over the small table beside John's chair.

Under any other circumstances, John would have gloated about finally having managed to sneak up on Sherlock Holmes.

But amusement was the last thing he could possibly feel right now and there was nothing here worth gloating about.

There was only Sherlock, staring at him with a rapid storm of emotions racing across his features.

Surprise, shock, embarrassment, humiliation, a bewildered sort of joy, confusion, more shock.

Finally, realisation, closely followed by utter horror.

Sherlock closed his eyes with the look of someone who desperately hoped to open them again and realise he had only been dreaming.

"Sherlock ..." John trailed off, not knowing what to say.

Sherlock shook his head and opened his eyes, apparently resigned to the fact that he wasn't dreaming.

"You're not supposed to be here." There was a pleading edge to his voice that made John almost physically sick with shame. "You're supposed to be on you-your honeymoon."

The plea was there in his eyes, too. John wondered what it was that Sherlock was so desperate for him to do. Vanish into thin air? Walk away? Pretend he had never come here? Pretend he hadn't seen and heard Sherlock so shattered?

He licked his lips and tried again. "Sherlock..."

He didn't even know what to say, so he gave up and stared at his best friend instead.

Sherlock looked ... dead. His face was even paler than usually, the shadows under his eyes deeper than John had ever seen them. His eyes appeared both blotchy and sunken in, his cheeks hollow, skin stretched thin over razor-sharp cheekbones. Several days' worth of stubble showed he hadn't shaved in a while. And his hair, usually so carefully groomed, was a mess.

Here was a man at the end of his rope and John wanted to kick himself repeatedly. How the hell had he missed this?

Sherlock had clearly been running himself into the ground for weeks. How was it possible that he, a doctor, had missed all the signs and assumed Sherlock was simply a bit stressed about the wedding preparations? Sherlock had never been supposed to be so involved, to be so stressed by something that didn't really concern him.

Except that it did.

And John had failed to see that, too.

There was no mistaking it now.

And the way Sherlock was looking at him! Eyes too big for his face, legs twitching as he appeared to contemplate whether to run or to stay put, and the way his gaze skidded over John. His face, his left shoulder, his legs, his stomach, his right shoulder, his nose, his arms ... never his eyes.

Never his left hand.

Sherlock was staring at him with the air of a man who had just seen an apparition and was now desperate to memorize every single detail before it vanished.

Now that John thought about it, he couldn't help but realise that Sherlock had been looking at him like this for months.

And he hadn't noticed.

Admittedly, he wasn't Sherlock. He couldn't look at people and know everything about them in one glance. But he was John Watson, and the one thing John Watson excelled at was understanding Sherlock Holmes.

Guilt gnawed at him. He hadn't seen. He hadn't realised. And he hadn't understood the things he _had_ seen.

It had been so obvious, looking back. Any idiot could have known.

John took a step forward, and another.

Sherlock watched him warily, backing away until he reached the fireplace.

"John."

John took another step closer.

Sherlock looked almost afraid. "John, please."

"Please what?" he asked softly, taking another step.

Sherlock swallowed. "Don't."

But John was done playing by Sherlock's rules and he was done with vague hints and subtle clues and speaking in riddles.

"Don't what?" he demanded.

Another step brought him to within inches of Sherlock, who was staring at him with wide eyes, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Please," he repeated, and the pain in his voice cut right through John and severed various vital organs.

But he couldn't give in now. "Please what? What do you want me to do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at him as if he didn't understand the question and John realised what the problem was.

"You don't know, do you? You want me to come closer and you also know that you really shouldn't want that, so you'll tell me to leave. Is that about right?"

Sherlock's expression shifted into something even more pained. John decided to take it as agreement.

He sighed. "Will you please stop trying to make my decisions for me?"

A blink.

John reached out and grasped Sherlock's wrist in his right hand.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed and his pulse hammered against John's fingers. John watched as Sherlock's fingers twitched as if to curl around his own before Sherlock visibly forced them still and it broke his heart all over again.

*****

Sherlock didn't know what to do.

He was still reeling from suddenly finding John here in the flat, hadn't quite comprehended the consequences of John's presence and the fact that he had heard every word Sherlock had said.

He hadn't meant for John to ever find out. That had been the entire point, the decision he had come to during their last case together.

And now John was right here, only inches away, with his hand on Sherlock's wrist and his fingers pressed to Sherlock's pulse, reading his heart's betrayal in the too-fast thrum of the blood rushing through his veins.

He was right, too.

Sherlock wanted John to stay. He wanted it so badly it physically hurt, because he knew with absolute certainty that he wasn't allowed to want that. The world didn't work like that.

He snatched in a breath, refusing to open his eyes. He didn't want to see the look on John's face when he spoke.

"You need to go, John."

It was the very last thing he wanted, but what else could he do? He was already tethering on the edge as it was.

"No."

Sherlock blinked, his eyes snapping open on their own accord. John wasn't supposed to argue with him. Not about that.

"You need to _go_ , John," he repeated, finally forcing himself to make eye contact. "You're already two days late for your honeymoon. Go home to your wife, forget all of this, and live the life you always wanted. The life you deserve."

Did John know how much it cost him to say this? Any of it? Could he possibly fathom the agony?

Sherlock remembered that day in the snow when he was a boy, the day he had miraculously evaded being impaled on a tree branch. From the pain he was experiencing right now, it appeared the branch had finally caught up with him. He was pinned, a butterfly fluttering weakly with no means of escape. Behind him there was the wall and in front of him was John, and he couldn't come closer. He mustn't.

John's mouth was doing a very complicated thing that looked like a grimace but also a smile and there was an emotion being expressed there that Sherlock couldn't identify. He didn't even know where to start, and then he felt his thoughts go fuzzy and hastily tore his gaze away from John's lips.

He could still recall the feel of them on his own with perfect precision, the taste and - _No!_

He slammed the door on that thought, shoving it far away into the depths of his mind palace. He would not torture himself any further.

John's thumb moved across the sensitive skin of Sherlock's wrist, just one sweep from left to right, and Sherlock's attention snapped to him as if he had shouted his name.

"I'm not going anywhere," John told him firmly. "I think there's something you need to tell me, something I need to hear, and I'm not going anywhere until you've said it."

It wasn't fair, Sherlock thought desperately. John already knew, of course he knew. Any idiot could have figured it out by now and John wasn't stupid. What good would it do to say it out loud? What could it possibly achieve? By keeping silent, he could at least pretend that it wasn't real.

That was the thing with sentiment - it got more real when you acknowledged it.

"Please," he repeated. "Walk away, John."

So far, they were dancing around the truth, neither of them admitting to what they both knew Sherlock so desperately wanted to say. So far, there was deniability. _Just a misunderstanding, haha, what a lark, eh?_

Deniability was good. Deniability meant they could eventually run into each other on the street a couple of years from now and the words wouldn't hang between them, a painful reminder of what Sherlock wanted and John couldn't give, making everything awkward.

But even as he thought it, even as he tried to come up with more and more reasons to convince himself that this was the best course of action, he could feel the words in his chest, in his throat, choking him, piling up on his tongue.

He pressed his lips together to stop them from escaping, staring straight ahead over the crown of John's head, unseeing, unblinking.

John sighed.

"You obviously didn't even try to deduce me today. Remember that saying you mentioned earlier? About setting things free?"

Sherlock did, and he wondered why John would be so cruel as to remind him of it.

John tugged at his hand, drawing his gaze back down to him. "You do know that's not how it ends, right? You do know there's a second part to that saying, don't you?"

Did he? He couldn't remember.

Somehow, inexplicably, John appeared to have moved closer to him. When he spoke, his voice was so low Sherlock had to struggle not to lean down to hear him better.

"' _If it comes back, it's yours forever'_."

Sherlock stared at him, uncomprehending.

John shrugged ruefully. "Thought you might want to know."

Somewhere, in another universe perhaps, these words probably would have made sense to Sherlock.

Here, all he could do was continue to stare at John, waiting for him to say something he could understand.

John cleared his throat. "I'm not a complete moron, you know? I came here to pick up the rings, found the speech you wrote. And the stag night folder. And I thought it was a bit convenient how Mycroft just happened to call you away on a case when he knew how important this day was, how important it was to me to have you there."

He shrugged again. "Lestrade came to pick me up and saw me with all these papers and he just ... knew."

Sherlock was almost relieved. So that was what had finally tipped John off. He supposed he should have expected that, but hiding the evidence hadn't even entered his mind at the time.

He swallowed, lowering his gaze to address the small piece of carpet between them. "I'm sorry."

He paused, then decided that that probably wasn't enough. "I didn't mean for you to find out. I wasn't going to ... I couldn't ... I never would have ..."

He broke off, frustrated at his inability to somehow put his resolution into words.

"Tell me," John implored.

Sherlock shook his head. "What's the point? This is all I've got left, John. Just this. And you expect me to just, just give it to you and let you walk away with it like it's some sort of prize?"

He didn't even know why he was saying it, why he was getting angry all of a sudden. It wasn't John's fault that Sherlock had no control over his treacherous emotions.

John flinched and Sherlock wanted to disappear.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, wishing it was enough. Wishing it could somehow undo all of this, make them both forget about it all.

John looked hurt. It was hard to tell what caused it - Sherlock lashing out? Sherlock trying to push him away?

He wished he knew how to make it better.

"Okay," John said, squaring his shoulders. "It's okay, Sherlock."

But it wasn't okay, Sherlock thought desperately, looking down at John and wondering when it had all gone so wrong.

It was never going to be okay, no matter what happened. They were already so far past the point of no return, he didn't even know why he was fighting it any more.

The words fell from his mouth like stones, dropping between them, each letter a tiny bomb.

It felt like jumping off the roof of St. Bart's hospital all over again.

"I am in love with you. And I can't bear it."


	21. Chapter 21

" _I am in love with you. And I can't bear it."_

Sherlock bit his lip, turned his head away, suddenly overwhelmed. He had never meant to say that.

"There," he said, voice wavering. "That's what you wanted, wasn't it? You can go now. Grant me the dignity not to have to watch you walk away."

And before John could say or do anything to stop him, Sherlock slid off to the side, twisting his wrist out of John's loose grip as he went, and escaped to his bedroom, not daring to look back. He only allowed himself to breathe after he had safely closed the door behind him.

His legs were shaking.

No, scratch that. His entire body was shaking.

He made it all the way to his bed, collapsing on the edge of the mattress with his elbows on his knees and his face buried in his hands. He felt mildly sick.

From the sitting room came the distant sounds of John's footsteps.

_'He's leaving!'_ his mind screamed at him. _'He's finally leaving, just like you told him. Well done, Sherlock. At least you cleared the air between you. No doubts left. Great. You can start missing him now.'_

He did.

Less than ten seconds and he was already missing John so fiercely he thought it might burn a hole right through his chest, through his shirt, through his coat.

Belatedly, he realised that he hadn't even had a chance to take it off since arriving at Baker Street.

He straightened, squaring his shoulders.

That was enough then.

He stood up straight, took off his coat and hung it on the hook on his door. Next was his jacket. He hadn't bothered changing his clothes once since he had left Baker Street five days ago. He would take them off, have a shower and a shave, scrub his wrist until every last trace of John's touch was well and truly gone, put on some new clothes and then ...

He hesitated.

Perhaps he could go to the morgue, ask Molly for a body he could dissect. Her quiet presence would help, keep him from doing something stupid, keep him focused on the Work.

Afterwards, he could call Lestrade, pester him about a case, perhaps solve some cold cases for him and yell at Anderson.

He could set up a new chain of experiments on ... something. He could do a ton of things to keep himself occupied. Anything to keep himself from thinking about John. Perhaps he would sit down and try to learn Icelandic in less than a week. And if all else failed, there was always his emergency stash and the needle ...

There was a knock on his bedroom door when he was halfway through unbuttoning his shirt.

He froze, hands on the fourth button from the top, and eyed the door warily. It occurred to him that he had forgotten to lock it.

The thought had barely crossed his mind before John opened the door, stopping on the threshold when his gaze found Sherlock just four feet away, standing by his closet. John looked a bit hunted.

"There was no wedding."

Sherlock blinked. "Pardon?"

"There was no wedding," John repeated, sounding slightly out of breath.

Sherlock had no idea what to say. Clearly John had lost his mind.

"I called it off," John added, apparently aware that further context was required. "I came to pick up the rings and I found the files and the speech and had a chat with Lestrade. And then I went home and called the wedding off."

Sherlock slowly lowered his hands. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

John shook his head. "You know what Mary said when we came back from that hotel in Scotland? She asked if you had finally told me. And when I wanted to know what she was talking about, she changed the subject. Even my own fiancée figured it out before I did. And it didn't even occur to her to tell me, to let me make a fully informed decision."

Vast empty space greeted Sherlock where he usually found his speech capacity. Clearly he must have misheard. Surely John hadn't just told him what Sherlock's ears claimed to have heard.

He continued to stare at John in silence, since that strategy seemed to have shown the best results so far.

"That's not all of it, of course, but ... well." John looked contrite. "I suppose it wasn't really fair on her, or me, or you, for me to hang on for so long. She was never going to be the most important person in my life. She might have been, if things had worked out differently, if you really had killed yourself. But you're here, you're alive. And it's not fair for me to always put her in second place. She deserves better. She deserves a husband who'll look at her and never wonder what might have been if he had been brave enough to make another choice. She deserves a husband who chose her out of love and not because he's terrified of choosing you and losing you all over again. I realised I was an idiot for thinking marrying someone I couldn't fully commit to was a good idea. I probably should have come to that conclusion regardless of your feelings, actually, but they gave me the final push I needed."

Sherlock was vaguely aware that his mouth was hanging open in shock and he hastily snapped it shut.

Whatever had gotten into John seemed to have seriously addled his mind.

No one in full possession of their sanity would ever walk away from someone like Mary for the sake of someone like Sherlock. He knew that much beyond a doubt, even though sometimes he had allowed himself to hope. But he had always known it was nothing but a dream, a childish wish that would not come true.

And now there was John, telling him exactly what he wanted to hear.

Suddenly, Sherlock found himself wondering if _he_ had hit his head.

Apparently, John was wondering the same thing, because he was starting to look concerned. "Sherlock, are you all right?"

He shook his head.

Just like that, John was in front of him, warm hands on his upper arms, guiding him backwards and forcing him to sit on the edge of his bed as John crouched before him, looking worried.

"Sherlock?"

He stared down at John, trying to rally his thoughts into a sensible order.

"John, I ... I think I must have misheard."

John frowned. "What?"

"You said ...," Sherlock closed his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief, hardly daring to even repeat it, "you said you called off your wedding."

"Oh."

Sherlock opened his eyes. John was smiling. _Why was he smiling?_

"Yeah, I did. Look."

And he showed Sherlock his left hand.

No ring.

There was no ring. There was no sign of there ever having been a ring, either. Granted, after two days there would be no noticeable discolouration, but there would be other signs, perhaps a slight reddening from twisting it around and around as John got used to the weight around his finger.

But there was nothing.

He blinked up at John, finally allowing himself to pay attention to the cloud of deductions racing through his mind.

_Dark shadows under his eyes, hasn't slept well recently, rumpled clothes, doesn't smell like that detergent Mary always uses for the laundry, missed a spot while shaving - no one there to point it out to him._

"...You moved out."

John nodded. "I didn't know where else to go, so I just took my stuff back to my old room upstairs. Hope you don't mind." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I, uh, I can of course leave if you want me to. Find somewhere else to stay."

"No!"

Sherlock almost shouted the word.

John grinned, relaxing. "Okay then."

"You moved out," Sherlock repeated, dumbfounded. "You moved back here."

"Yes."

"You came back."

"I did," John confirmed.

Sherlock frowned. "Why?"

"I thought that was obvious," John said, reaching out to clutch both of Sherlock's hands in his own. "I realised I'll always choose you. Doesn't matter what the other option is. It's always going to be you. So if you think you can forgive me for being a blind, ignorant, scared, closeted fool..." He trailed off and shrugged.

Sherlock stared at him in wonder, then frowned.

"Closeted?"

John smiled ruefully. "Let's say I never felt comfortable with people viewing me as bisexual, no matter how true a definition it is."

Sherlock surged forward.

*****

John didn't know what he had expected, but it certainly wasn't for Sherlock to tackle him to the ground.

Nevertheless, that was exactly what happened and he suddenly found himself on his back on the floor, his wrists pinned on either side of his head and Sherlock's knees bracketing his hips.

Sherlock's face was inches from his and he looked absolutely livid.

" _Years_ , John!" he snapped. "You've been telling everyone who would listen that you weren't gay _for years_ , and now you suddenly decide you've changed your mind?!"

John gaped at him, still wheezing from being knocked to the floor. "That, coming from a man who said he wasn't interested in anyone."

"I wasn't!" Sherlock hissed. "I'd only known you for a couple of hours, John. Hours! How was I supposed to know it would turn out like this? I'm not the kind of person who forms attachments quickly. I don't feel attracted to people at all until I've known them for ages! And by the time I realised what you meant to me, you had already presented a string of girlfriends. What was I supposed to do, huh?"

"I- girlfriends?" John repeated dumbly. "You ... how long has this been going on?"

"What?" Sherlock demanded, now a little out of breath, possibly from the effort of not shouting.

"You, feeling like ..." He gestured between them.

Sherlock's gaze slid to the side, avoiding John's eyes. "A while."

"Christ, Sherlock, don't bother being specific."

"I don't quite know, all right?" Sherlock snapped. "I believe it first occured to me when I saw you at the pool, but it took a while to figure out what it meant."

John didn't know what to say. Sherlock had felt like this for years. And he hadn't given him even the slightest hint. Not once. Not until now. And if he had, John had failed to notice them at the time. No, there was no "if" about it. John _had_ failed to notice them.

"You were never going to tell me, where you?" he asked softly.

Sherlock shook his head, still avoiding his gaze. "What would have been the point? It was a miracle you even shared a flat with me for as long as you did, I wasn't going to drive you away if I could at all help it."

John sighed. "You wouldn't have," he said quietly, wishing he could reach out and force Sherlock to look at him, but his hands were still pinned. "When you said you weren't interested, I took your word for it. And I went through a collection of girlfriends so you wouldn't be made uncomfortable by my interest in you."

Sherlock's gaze snapped back to his at the last part, the look on his face intense.

When he spoke, it was in a very slow, measured tone. "John?"

"Yes?"

"You're making it very difficult for me to behave myself."

John grinned. "Good."

He let his gaze settle on Sherlock's mouth, and when he was certain Sherlock had noticed, licked his lips.

Sherlock made a noise like a choked-off moan. "John..."

"Either you come down here right now," John said, trying to lace his voice with Captain Watson steel, "or let go of my hands so I can pull you down myself."

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice.

Their mouths met fiercely and even with his hands pinned and unable to touch Sherlock, John could feel the man's entire body vibrating with barely contained arousal and lingering shock. It was even better than their one kiss at the hotel had been, except that this time neither of them was pretending not to feel anything.

A moment later, though, Sherlock tore his mouth away.

"John... you can't ... you can't do this and then ... then... leave. Do you hear me? There's no going back. So if this is some kind of game, some sort of joke, we need to stop right now."

He swallowed and John was forcibly reminded that it had only been a handful of minutes since he had discovered Sherlock on the floor by his chair. At first, he had been too dumbfounded by the sight of him to say anything and then Sherlock had started speaking and John, feeling every word like a blow, had thought Sherlock might need to get this off his chest. He wished he had interrupted him immediately. He wished he could get past his lingering fear long enough to say what he needed to.

"I couldn't bear it," Sherlock told him, the look in his eyes intense. "I might have just about survived you getting married and never coming back, but if you walk away after this, I won't be able to."

John was already shaking his head before Sherlock had even finished speaking. "No. It's not a game and it's not a joke. God, Sherlock. I just walked away from _my fiancée_ for this. For _you_. How could I not be absolutely and utterly serious about this?"

But Sherlock didn't look convinced. John thought he probably had a right to be sceptical, after everything that had happened. After everything John _hadn't_ said.

He wriggled his hands pointedly until Sherlock released them, then reached out to grab his face with both hands.

"When I realised why you did what you did, when I finally understood that you loved me, I cancelled my wedding and packed my bags and moved right back in here. I liked Mary, I guess I might love her a little, too. But I love you more. Always have. And I'm ... _so_ sorry I ever made you doubt that."

Sherlock made a sound that was very nearly a sob, or possibly a laugh, and turned his head to kiss the palm of John's right hand. "My John."

"Yours," he agreed, and pulled Sherlock down to kiss him again.

*****

It couldn't be real. It was too good, too perfect to possibly be real.

Sherlock was reasonably sure of that, but found he didn't care in the slightest. So what if waking up from this dream, this halluciantion, was going to kill him? Perhaps he had lost his mind sometime around the time when John had gotten married, and all of this was a perfect fantasy world his mind had sought refuge in.

Well, if that was a case, he damn well hoped they would leave him there.

_'There'_ in this case meant kneeling on the floor of his own bedroom, with a delightfully responsive John Watson trapped between his spread thighs. It was, in Sherlock's opinion, the perfect place to be.

He had a long list of perfect places to be in and all of them involved John in various stages of undress. The sitting room of 221b. The kitchen. The bathroom. Sherlock's bedroom. Sherlock's _bed_. John's bedroom. The lab at St. Bart's. A holding cell at Scotland Yard. A cottage in Sussex.

And now his bedroom floor. Bit surprising, that one, but not unwelcome.

He moaned into John's mouth, biting at his lower lip when the opportunity to do so presented itself.

John's hands were stroking down his back and along his sides, tracing his spine and ribcage. He shivered, torn between the need to press closer to the body beneath his and the urge to arch into John's touch. After years of longing, the sudden contact was overwhelming.

His own hands were unable to settle, fluttering here and there in a fitful, desperate attempt to touch as much of John as possible at once.

His mouth detached from John's and he trailed kisses down his neck to the collar of his ridiculous jumper, nipping at John's clavicle in passing.

John groaned and bucked his hips, a reaction that was both satisfying and immensely frustrating.

It drew Sherlock's attention to the deplorable state they were in, both still completely dressed, though at least his shirt had already been halfway unbuttoned when John had walked into his bedroom.

"John."

"Mmh."

"Take that thing off. Now!"

John groaned. "Can't. Not while you're keeping me flat on the floor, you idiot."

Sherlock had to concede the logic of this and sat up, dragging John with him and pulling his jumper over his head in one swift movement.

There, that was better. Except...

"Shirt. Off. How many layers are there, John?"

John huffed a laugh, his own fingers having found Sherlock's stomach and continuing the work of unbuttoning his own shirt. "Why don't you deduce it? Or, you know, see for yourself?"

Sherlock did.

Neither of them cared to see where John's shirt landed once Sherlock had all but torn it off him, but it was quickly followed by his vest ("Really, John! What do you wear in the winter?") and - after a brief struggle with his cuffs - Sherlock's own shirt.

They gasped into each other's mouths when their bare chests finally pressed together, fingers digging into waists and trailing along sharp hipbones.

It was impossible, Sherlock realised, for his imagination to ever do justice to this feeling. There was only one possible conclusion.

"You're real," he murmured in disbelief, skimming his hands down John's sides. "You're real, you're real, you're real."

"Yes," John replied, turning serious. "I'm right here and I'm not leaving you."

Sherlock felt the words more than he heard them, shivering down his spine and rattling his bones with how much he wanted them to be true.

"God, you're shaking," John said. "It's all right. It's all fine. Come here."

He pulled Sherlock close and held him, sinking back with his arms wrapped around him, the hard floor beneath his back be damned.

With his ear pressed to John's chest and his heartbeat slowing down, Sherlock felt all the urgency flee his body, evaporating like so much mist. He went a bit boneless, sighing into John's skin.

"When was the last time you slept?" John asked softly.

Sherlock shook his head. "Don't recall."

He could feel John sigh and nod. "All right. Come on, get up," he said, pushing at Sherlock's shoulders. "You're having a quick shower and then we're going to sleep."

Sherlock might have protested but ... "We?"

John smiled at him. "Weren't you listening? I'm not leaving you. But you need sleep, love."

Any protest Sherlock might have wanted to voice promptly dissolved.

Ten minutes later, he found himself under the hot spray of the shower, his muscles twitching and limbs trembling as the last of the completely displaced adrenaline ebbed away and his body began to relax. He could hear John walking around the flat.

_'This is real,'_ he reminded himself fiercely. _'He's really here.'_

It seemed impossible to believe.

But once he had brushed his teeth, changed into his pyjama trousers, and stepped into his bedroom, it was just in time to watch John crawl under the covers.

For a moment, Sherlock was struck dumb by the sight of him.

John stretched out on his back, smiled, and lifted the covers. "Care to join me?"

His bed had never looked more inviting and Sherlock wasted no time getting in.

"Come here," John murmured and Sherlock, still half convinced this was the best dream of his life, shuffled closer until they were pressed against each other.

God, John was warm. Warm and solid and _real_.

Without really meaning to, Sherlock wrapped himself around him, throwing one leg over John's and wrapping one arm around his mid-section. Instead of complaining, John pushed his arm under Sherlock's head and grasped his hand and now Sherlock could hear John's steady heartbeat again and feel his hot breath in his hair.

Surely, this was paradise.

"Stay with me," he whispered.

"Always," John murmured, and started carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock dared to close his eyes and focus on the sensation of it. John's fingers in his curls, John's scent in his nose, John's warmth all around him, John's breath and heartbeat lulling him into a state of utter relaxation.

John, here with him.

And finally, Sherlock slept.


	22. Chapter 22

John woke with an armful of Sherlock Holmes and immediately decided it was by far the best possible way of waking. There were dark curls in his mouth and a knee pressing down on his bladder and Sherlock's breath tickling his neck and it was perfect.

He hadn't slept that well in months and couldn't help but remember wanting to reach out back at the hotel in Scotland. He recalled being afraid of Sherlock recoiling and wondered how he had ever managed to delude himself so strongly. As if Sherlock, who had never cared about invading John's personal space before, would have minded.

John shook his head at himself, turned slightly to get the hair out of his mouth and opened his eyes to find Sherlock already awake and looking up at him.

"Good morning," John murmured.

"You're still here," Sherlock said, sounding half surprised and half awed.

John wanted to kick himself for all the pain he had caused with his careless words and actions. An overwhelming wave of fondness for the man in his arms swept through him and he could feel his features soften in response.

"Yes," he said, realising his silence had dragged on too long. "As long as you want me to be."

Sherlock smiled. "Forever is an awfully long time, John. You had better be certain."

"Well, I might want to go to the loo before forever starts, then," John suggested, wondering if Sherlock could feel how hard his heart was beating all of a sudden. The sheer joy might kill him. "Let me up for a minute?"

Sherlock grumbled but complied and John dragged himself out of bed with considerable effort.

The bathroom was cold and unwelcome after the furnace that was Sherlock. John went about his business as quickly as possible and then took two minutes to brush his teeth.

He was just rinsing his mouth when the door to the bathroom was opened and Sherlock poked his head in. "Did you get lost in there?"

"It's been four minutes," John protested. "Let a man have a wash, will you?"

In lieu of replying, Sherlock stepped closer until he was pressed against John's back and buried his face in John's nape. "No."

Large, warm hands snuck around John's hips and nimble fingers toyed with the waistline of his pyjama trousers and he groaned. "God."

"Mmmh, no. Just Sherlock."

"Close enough," John said, somehow managing to muster the coordination to wipe his face before turning around and pulling Sherlock down for a kiss.

Sherlock moaned into his mouth and his hands slid beneath John's waistband and around his back to unashamedly grope his arse.

_'Yes'_ John thought. _'Definitely the perfect way to start a day.'_

*****

This was bliss, Sherlock decided.

Standing in the freezing bathroom with his hands on John Watson's arse and said man's tongue in his mouth was pure and utter bliss. He must have been very tired indeed last night - it seemed impossible that John had managed to talk him into sleeping after kissing him breathless. Right now, sleep was the very last thing on his mind.

He reluctantly removed one of his hands from John's backside in favour of tracing each of his ribs, sparing a half-thought to being grateful that neither of them had bothered with putting on a t-shirt again last night.

"Bed," John rasped, managing to break their kiss. "It's right there, Sherlock. Come on."

"Only if you take off your trousers," Sherlock said, voice muffled against the rough skin of the scar on John's shoulder.

"Only if the same goes for you."

"Deal."

They pushed and pulled one another out of the bathroom and back to the bed, mouths not separating for even a moment until they collapsed onto the mattress, still warm from their residual body heat.

Sherlock was aware of the pitiful sound that escaped him as their bodies pressed together, but he couldn't be bothered to care. Not when he was finally in bed with John, pressed to him from head to toe, feeling his erection against his stomach. It was beyond brilliant.

They pushed and shoved at their clothing until finally their pyjama trousers were around their ankles and then off. Sherlock kicked them off the bed, not caring where they landed. As far as he was concerned, they could happily be sucked into another dimension. If it meant he got to keep John in this undressed state, all the better.

"Slow down," John murmured against his mouth and Sherlock could feel him smile. "We've got all the time in the world."

"Time, yes," Sherlock agreed, letting one hand trail down John's side. "Patience? No."

John groaned and bucked up into his hand as it found its target. Sherlock smirked. "I've spent years waiting for you, John. I'm quite done with waiting. So unless you have any objections, I'm going to pull off your pants and suck you off."

This time, it was John who made the pitiful sound. Taking into account the notable lack of any protest whatsoever, Sherlock decided to take it as encouragement.

"I love you," he repeated, simply because he could. Saying it out loud felt so good, he did it again.

"I love you, I love you, I love you." He paused in between to press kisses to any part of John he could reach, his hand stroking him in tandem with his words.

" _Ahhh_.... are you... making up for ... lost time?" John gasped.

"Uh-huh," Sherlock confirmed. "All those times I didn't get to tell you."

"When?" John asked, throwing his head back and groaning loudly as Sherlock twisted his hand on the upwards stroke. "Tell me when."

"I love you," Sherlock told him. "That one was for the time you said I was your best friend. I love you. That time I told you about my retirement plans, wishing you'd be there with me. I love you. Every single damn time I showed you how to dance. I love you. When I said goodbye to you on our last morning at the hotel."

His voice broke several times throughout his little speech, but he kept going, lips fluttering along John's jaw and neck and chest. "I love you. When I stood at your wedding rehearsal and realised I couldn't possibly go through the real thing and keep my mouth shut so I called my brother for help. I love you. When Mycroft called to get me out of the wedding. I love you. That time in the hotel when we had an argument because I stopped you from telling everyone about Mary."

A shaky breath. "I love you. When the cook said it was bad news for a relationship if one partner loves the other so much more and I knew exactly what she meant. I love you. Every time the other guests thought we were this fantastic, loving couple and I died a little with how much I wanted it to be true."

"God," John breathed, reaching out and pulling Sherlock closer. "Come here, you idiot."

Sherlock did, reluctantly letting go of John's cock and slotting their hips together instead.

"That cook was absolutely right," John told him softly, breathlessly. "I'm sorry it took me so long to realise it, but she was right. Mary and I could never have been happy together. Not when she loved me more than I her because I love you so much there's no space for anyone else. And I do. Love you. I just wish I had realised it sooner, instead of breaking her heart now. But," he added, his arms tightening around Sherlock, "I'm glad I came to my senses before the wedding. I'm glad I was already here and waiting for you when you came home. I tried calling you once I made up my mind but you wouldn't answer your bloody phone."

"I switched it off," Sherlock murmured. "I was scared someone would send me pictures of the wedding. Or a video."

John pressed a fierce kiss to his shoulder. "I thought that might be it. So I came home to wait for you."

"Home," Sherlock echoed, humming in contentment. Every single _'I love you'_ from John's mouth seemed to be seeping right through his skin and into his soul.

John's hand trailed down Sherlock's spine, mapping out his vertebrae one by one before dipping lower, his grasp getting firmer.

Sherlock gave a low moan. "John..."

"Hmm, I've always wanted to do that," he confessed, squeezing Sherlock's arse.

"Y-you have?"

"Of course. Didn't stand a chance, what with you waltzing around in designer trousers that were basically painted onto your body. You really have no idea how attractive you are, do you?"

Sherlock shrugged, biting his lip in pleasure. "It never seemed to make much of a difference."

One of his own hands trailed down John's side all over again, resuming its previous action with a gentle squeeze. John tipped his head back and moaned.

"I think I've changed my mind," Sherlock murmured, his lips inches from John's ear, hot breath ghosting over his skin.

"About what?"

"I don't want to suck you off. Well, not now, anyways."

"Oh?" Was that disappointment in his voice?

"Nope," Sherlock confirmed, raising his head a little and grinning down at John. "I want you to fuck me instead."

He combined his words with another firm squeeze and a twist of his wrist that made John's hips jerk. Sherlock decided right then and there that he could spend a lifetime in bed with John, doing nothing but this, and never tire of it.

"God, Sherlock," John groaned. "Are you trying to kill me?"

"No, but I do intend to have us both die _le petit mort_ , and I do hope you are on board with that."

"Very much so," John promised, gasping as Sherlock ran his hand over his glans, a touch barely there.

"Lube?" John finally asked, once he managed to gather enough brain cells to form a word. "C-condoms?"

"Top drawer," Sherlock murmured.

John somehow found the hand-eye coordination necessary to reach the drawer in question, pull it open, and extract the necessary items. "Didn't know you were prepared."

"A fit of optimism some months ago," Sherlock confessed. "When you came here to stay the night after that fight you and Mary had about the wedding venue."

"That made you optimistic?"

Sherlock shrugged, moving to kiss the scar on John's shoulder to hide his blush. "I thought if you couldn't even agree on a place, maybe you'd give up on the time as well and reschedule for never. I was foolish enough to hope that you might separate and you'd move back in here and we could go back to the way things were and I could give you space for a while. Just a while, to let you come to terms with it. I imagined walking into the sitting room and kissing you right in your chair, so you'd have nowhere to run and hide."

He paused, sighed. "And then I imagined your top five most likely reactions and by the time I was done thoroughly beating myself up for even entertaining such a thought in the first place, you and Mary had already made up and it was all void."

John hummed and pressed another fierce kiss to Sherlock's shoulder, as if trying to brand him with his mouth. It felt like an apology and a promise all in one.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I'm so sorry I didn't realise what was going on. I should have. In hindsight, you were obvious enough about it, if only I had bothered to pay attention."

"You really never guessed?" Sherlock asked dubiously, letting their conversation distract him from the sound of John opening the cap of the lube bottle.

John thought about it. "Well, there was a moment where I wasn't sure, actually. Two, now that I think of it. There was that moment when we were dancing in our room at the Last Stand and you looked at me and I thought ... well, I thought I was imagining the longing in your eyes. And then, later that night, there was a crazy moment when you kissed me where I thought maybe you really were interested. But then I saw the disgust on your face."

Sherlock shook his head, peppering kisses along John's throat. "I was disgusted with myself. To sink so low as to trick you into a kiss, to steal it from you when you had no intention of giving it - I hated myself for doing it. And of course, once I had a taste, it was even harder to pretend."

He paused again and then whispered: "I spent the past three days going back over this entire case and wondering what might have happened if I had spoken up. There were dozens of moments where I thought if only I could press _Pause_ and _Rewind_ on life itself, I could do things differently, tell you the truth. I imagined what it would be like if you felt the same."

For some reason, that made John smile. "Want to know something funny?"

Sherlock didn't know if now was a good time to hear funny stories but also didn't feel like refusing John anything. "What?"

"I did the same thing," John confessed. "Wondered what might have happened. If I had been braver. Or if I had seen some sort of sign I told myself I had overlooked. A look on your face, an odd note to your voice. If someone else had said something. When we came home, I lay awake all night, wondering." He sighed. "We could have saved ourselves a lot of heartache. I remember at one point during our stay at the hotel I woke in the middle of the night and you were sleeping next to me and I wanted so badly to touch your face, I had to turn around and lie on my hands to stop myself."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up. "I went to bed hoping for one of those movie trope moments where we would just happen to wake up in each other's arms. Waking up with you on the other side of the bed was a huge let-down."

John smiled. "I can imagine. Waking up with you in my arms would have made me cave instantly."

He tightened his arm around Sherlock to demonstrate. "I wouldn't have known how to let you go."

"I wouldn't have let you," Sherlock whispered. "There is a limit to my self-control and I think that would have been it. I spent our entire stay there going back and forth between wanting to tell you and being terrified of it all falling apart the moment I did. I'd get ready to tell you and you'd make an off-handed remark about Mary and I'd remind myself that you loved her and didn't feel that way about me. And in the end I stayed silent. I thought if it was going to destroy me, at least I wouldn't drag you down as well."

John made a choked noise and kissed him again. "I won't let it destroy you," he whispered fiercely. "I won't let it hurt you for even one more second."

Sherlock moaned into his kiss. "Show me."

And he thought _'Show me you want me, show me you need me at least half as much as I need you'_.

Perhaps he said it out loud, his filter finally off, because John said: "I will. I need you more than that. Breathe."

Sherlock breathed and then John's hand was there, slick with lube already warmed to his skin and Sherlock gasped at his touch, letting his head fall back into the pillow.

His thighs were shaking already.

He thought he could die happy from now on. No matter what the world threw at him, in this one moment he had John and that was all that mattered.

Perhaps he was already dead and this was heaven.

The world turned a bit blurry around the edges, the next minutes nothing but a collection of hazy images and impressions of slick fingers and intense pleasure. He wasn't sure how he kept his composure through any of it.

But then John sank into him and the world swam back into focus and Sherlock cried out, again and again, all traces of composure lost to the roaring in his ears and the thrum of his heart and the sound of John's voice and the sensation of them being together at last.

It could have been hours or seconds, several days or a single moment in time. He didn't know.

When he finally came to his senses, John was sprawled on top of him, face pressed to Sherlock's throat, hot puffs of air against his skin with each breath John took, Sherlock's hands tracing soothing patterns on his back. He realised he was trembling, his heart beating too quickly in his chest.

"Shh, love," John murmured. "I've got you."

"Yes," Sherlock whispered back. "Yes."


	23. Chapter 23

They did drag themselves out of bed and into the shower after some hours and another round.

Afterwards, John realised that Sherlock likely hadn't eaten anything in several days and promptly deposited him on a kitchen chair and handed him an apple to munch on while he prepared some actual food for them.

All of Sherlock's - admittedly rather half-hearted - protests went entirely ignored, so he simply sat and watched John bustle around the kitchen, trying to wrap his head around the fact that John was here and that he was not going anywhere.

This was helped by the soreness of his muscles and the pleasant ache every time he shifted in his chair. It really had been a long time but he remembered this feeling and even his exceptional brain couldn't have made it up, so it must be real.

"All right?" John asked.

"Hm?"

"You had the softest smile on your face," John said. "I don't think I've ever seen you look like that."

Sherlock felt his smile widen. "I was just thinking that this is real."

"Oh." John looked very serious and then stepped closer to him, cupping Sherlock's cheek with his hand. There was a bruise forming on his neck, evidence of Sherlock's mouth on his skin. "It is. We're here and we're together and we're going to stay that way from now on. No weddings, no fake suicides, no more running off on our own."

Sherlock looked up into his eyes and saw only honest determination and a quiet happiness. It was a shock to see all of it directed at him. He swallowed and smiled. "Yes. No more."

John smiled back, kissed the corner of his mouth and went back to making lunch. Sherlock stared at the love bite on John's neck and wondered what on earth he had ever done right to deserve any of this.

*****

They were snogging on the floor.

Sherlock was a bit hazy on the details of how they had gotten there but he was currently stretched out on the dusty carpet in their sitting room and John was on top of him. They both tasted of the spaghetti and meatballs they had had for lunch and he could not remember a single moment in his life where he had been happier. He had found himself thinking so quite often recently.

It had been two days since he had come home to find John in the flat - the best two days of his life.

Mrs Hudson had returned from a longer shopping trip just as he and John had finished their lunch that next day and her joy at seeing the two of them back together had been so genuine it had almost moved him to tears - not that he would ever admit that.

She had only stayed long enough to get confirmation that John had no intention of leaving them again and had made herself scarce since then, most likely to give them time to settle into their new reality while she sat next door with Mrs Turner, giggling and gossiping over tea and biscuits. Sherlock found he didn't mind.

He and John hadn't left the flat at all. In fact, they had barely left the bedroom except to eat and have the occasional shower. Years of pent-up desire needed to be discharged and neither one of them had been keen on going outside. They barely managed to keep their hands off each other.

Which, incidentally, was why they were currently sprawled on the carpet, snogging like teenagers.

He was so distracted by John, he didn't even hear the steps on the stairs until someone spoke:

"Sherlock, are you there? Is everything all ri-" Lestrade stopped speaking and cleared his throat. "Oh."

"Yes?" Sherlock asked, turning his head to peer past John's arm. "Was there something you wanted?"

"I ... what the hell?" the DI said, clearly beyond words.

John took that as his cue to sit up, looking not the least bit embarrassed to have been caught making out on the floor. "Hullo Greg."

"John," Lestrade said, nodding at him and doing his best to seem casual. "Sorry to intrude. I haven't heard from you since you sent round that mass text saying the wedding was called off after our ... uh... chat. I just wanted to make sure you were doing all right."

He glanced between them, taking in Sherlock's messy hair and half-open shirt and the numerous love bites on John's throat. "I guess you're doing just fine."

"Hm, never better, thank you," Sherlock said helpfully.

"How...?"

John shrugged ruefully. "Let's say I came to my senses just in time."

"I dare say," Lestrade muttered. "We were quite despairing of you two. Well, of Sherlock, mostly. Didn't know you were having any doubts, John, until you said so." He coughed. "Well, I'm glad it all seems to have worked out for you."

"So are we," John said. "The situation was anything but ideal but I think," he glanced down at Sherlock who hadn't bothered to move from his prone position, "I think we're exactly where we are supposed to be now."

"Personally," Sherlock began, "I can think of a better place than the floor. We should just go back to b-mph!"

John had hastily clamped a hand over his mouth. "Let's not disturb Greg any further, shall we?"

He smiled brightly at the DI and released Sherlock's mouth. "Was there anything else we could do for you?"

"Uh ... there are a couple of cases I was hoping Sherlock could take a look at," Lestrade stammered. "But take your time."

"We'll be down at the Yard tomorrow," John said. "Don't expect us before noon, though. We've been sleeping in a lot recently."

"Sleeping, uh-huh," Sherlock said and John hastily put his hand back over his mouth, a faint blush on his cheeks. Sherlock smiled and kissed his palm.

Lestrade looked torn between wanting to laugh and wanting therapy. "Fine. Good. Er. I'll just be going then."

"See you tomorrow, Greg," John said happily.

They waited until the front door had fallen closed behind the DI before daring to look one another in the eyes, then promptly burst out laughing.

"Well, I guess this is going to be all over the Yard before the day is over," John sighed.

"Do you mind?," Sherlock asked softly.

John laughed. "God, no. Can't have anyone else thinking you're up for grabs now, can I? And if we're lucky, they won't faint immediately when I snog you silly at a crime scene."

"You want to snog me silly at a crime scene?" Sherlock asked, grinning.

"I want to snog you silly everywhere, all the time."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should demonstrate. Can't get enough practice. We wouldn't want me to be only half silly after all."

They stayed on the carpet for a while longer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but sweet this time - just an equally short epilogue left now!


	24. Epilogue

 

_Rewind, I wanna go it again, light up the dark, halo on the side_

_So I’ll know it will not leave me wanting, I see my heart, waving me bye-bye_

_Rewind, I wanna go it again, light up the dark, halo on the side_

\- "Rewind" by Poets of the Fall

 

*****

**The Personal Blog of**

**Dr. John H. Watson**

 

**16 th AUGUST**

 

**An Update**

Well, it's been a while since I last posted here. A lot has happened since then.

Sherlock and I spent a lot of time making preparations for a wedding that didn't happen. I'm sorry to all of you for making travel plans to attend only to have me cancel the whole thing at the last moment. It wasn't an ideal situation for anyone involved. I'm not sorry for cancelling it, though.

For those who are wondering, I've moved back into 221b. It may be the only time I've ever managed to thoroughly shock Sherlock and I hope I never will again. As I said, it wasn't an ideal situation.

The man himself has been busy recently - my old bedroom upstairs suddenly became available and he's building himself a proper lab up there. I told him so long as he doesn't cook up meth or any other illegal substances in it, it's fine with me. Our friends at the Yard have taken to calling our place 'CSI Baker Street'. I had a good laugh about it but Sherlock found it a perfectly reasonable name. I told him we'd watch a bit of CSI and he got very excited about a show about crime scene investigators. No one tell him, please. I'm already looking forward to his commentary.

What else? Oh, yes. Mrs Hudson is beside herself with joy to have us both back 'where we belong'. We haven't had to cook any meals for ourselves in over a week and she didn't even complain when Sherlock stole all her liquid honey. Don't ask. He claims it was for science and we'll leave it at that.

Sherlock and I also spent a couple of days in a lovely hotel up in Scotland last month to solve a murder. I haven't gotten around to writing up the case yet. He keeps arguing about the title with me. (I'll call it 'Treasures lost and found' - stop scowling, Sherlock.)

Either way, we had a lovely time up there, as far as one can have a lovely time while investigating a murder and pretending not to be in love with one's best friend while pretending to be deeply in love with said best friend. It all got a bit complicated but, as you can see, we've managed to sort ourselves out just in time.

I'll finish writing up that Highlands case soon.

One final word of advice: If you're in love with your best friend, don't try to marry someone else.

 

**16 COMMENTS**

 

Harry Watson, 11:43

OH MY GOD.

         Harry Watson, 11:45

         About time you pulled your head out of your arse!

 

         John Watson, 11:52

         Thanks for that one, Harry.

 

         Sherlock Holmes, 11:54

         I concur.

 

Mike S., 12:03

Guess my wedding boycott wasn't needed, after all. I didn't introduce you to Sherlock so you could marry someone else, John! 

         Harry Watson, 12:04

         You tell him, Mike!

 

         It's GREG, 12:05

         Well played, mate.

 

         John Watson, 12:06

         @Mike S.: Excuse me?

 

         Sherock Holmes, 12:07

         One day, I'll find a way to suitably repay this debt, Mike.

 

LizandArt, 12:13

Oh, how lovely! We were so disappointed when you said it was all for show, we thought you made a fantastic couple. We're so glad to hear you got there in the end.

         John Watson, 12:17

         Thank you. You did say a good Best Man was key to a successful wedding. I simply decided to combine the two.

 

         Trish, 12:19

         I second that, so happy to hear you decided to make it real!

 

Bill Murray, 12:43

What a time to be alive!

 

Mrs Turner, 13:01

Well you can't blame a woman for being happy, John! I was quite despairing of the two of you.

         Mrs Turner, 13:03

         It's Mrs Hudson, by the way.

 

         John Watson, 13:05

         Thanks Mrs H.

*****

**> >FASTFORWARD<<**

**> >PLAY<<**

"So the tablecloths will be purple?"

"Lilac. And it's the serviettes. Really, John, do pay attention."

John groaned and buried his head in his hands. "Purple, lilac, what's the difference?"

"On the colour spectrum they-"

"Sherlock," John interrupted him, sighing. "It was a hypothetical question. God, I'm sick of all this."

"Oh." He frowned, feeling his enthusiasm for the wedding preparations evaporate. What point was there to it if John didn't feel enthusiastic himself? "So ... you don't want this, then?"

"Don't want what?"

"The wedding."

"Wha-?" John stared at him in utter surprise. "Of course I want this wedding, Sherlock! The entire wedding is happening in the first place because I wanted it."

"But you just said..."

"The _wedding_ I want. I simply don't care about the bloody _tablecloths_ one way or the other!" John groaned again and dropped his head onto the table with a dull thud. That couldn't be comfortable. "Please, Sherlock, can we take a break from this? Just once? I'm desperate here."

Sherlock smiled, something bright and warm sparking in his chest as he realised what John was doing. "I feel like we've had this conversation already, almost a year ago," he said, smile widening. "I'm desperate, too - for a shag. Can we just forget about all of the trimmings and elope?"

John raised his head and laughed. "Ha! You wish. But you're not getting out of this. I am going to do it right this time. But you're right." He nodded, waving a hand at the table. "Forget about the flowers and the tablecloths and the bloody napkins. There will be you and me and the people we care about and our vows."

They looked at each other across the table.

Sherlock felt his heart jolt in his chest and wondered if he would ever get used to this. To John being here. His _fiance_.

He had written his vows weeks ago. They had already been on his mind for years, all he had needed to do was put them to paper. They strongly resembled a Best Man speech he had once written and then burned before anyone but Lestrade had gotten to see it.

And less than a month from now, he would say these words out loud and he knew his voice wouldn't waver because he had never been surer of anything in all his life.

He would stand in front of an officiant, surrounded by his friends and family, and see only John. His groom.

And, until then, if he caught himself thinking about what might have been, these days he could simply reach out and pull John close and know that it had all turned out all right in the end.

And while he wouldn't mind an encore, there was no need to rewind anything.

 

**> >STOP<<**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it.  
> Thank you so much for reading this far, for giving this story a chance and for letting me know what you think about it.  
> Thank you for the shouting and crying in my inbox, for the compliments ("you fantastic murderer", "you brilliant monster") that will end up on my imaginary CV. Thank you for the gorgeous cover art (CHECK OUT THE COVER ART YOU GUYS!) and the all-caps screaming in the comments.  
> Thank you for following me and our boys along this path and trusting me to make things right. (Also, go and listen to that song by the Poets. And then listen to all their other songs.)
> 
> A look into the future:  
> \- I intend to start posting the second part of my Sally Donovan-centric story soon, this time with added Johnlock  
> \- I have two Sherlock crossovers and some other stories in the works that are in various stages of being unfinished so far (that's what NaNo exists for!) - look forward to seeing at least one of them in spring 2019.  
> They will pry this ship out of my cold, dead hands, so I hope to see some of you in the comment section of my future works.
> 
> Thank you again.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Rewind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14939208) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [Rewind — [Cover]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16336517) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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